


The Legends of Sherlock Holmes

by Wikketkrikket



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1960s, 1970s, Beyond Hogwarts, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Horcruxes, Mystery, Pets, Potterlock, Purebloods, Quidditch, Seer John, friendly Jim, longest five chapter fic ever, muggle born
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 140,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wikketkrikket/pseuds/Wikketkrikket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer, 1963, and John Watson has just moved back to England following his father's death. It looks set to be a boring few weeks, until he meets a strange boy climbing trees who tells him he should believe in magic. In the years leading up to the outbreak of the first Wizarding War, John finds a world he never expected. Originally posted on fanfiction.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm totally new to this website and a little bit lost... please forgive me any errors! I originally posted this story, written for my friend's birthday, over on ff.net, but I was rather proud of it so wanted to put it up here too. I only ever intended it to be five chapters when I planned it out, and I stuck to that; but still somehow managed to make it into a 140,000 word epic. As such, it has been split into 13 parts for internet consumption. Also, it is set in the years 1963-1975, because of reasons. ;3

Chapter One

_October, 1975_

 

It had been more than five years since John had last seen Sherlock Holmes when he suddenly arrived that night. He had thought of him, of course; but Sherlock hadn’t been lying when, on the last day of school, he had said he didn’t do keeping in touch. John had tried at first, sent owls that invariably got either a one-sentence reply or no reply at all, and eventually his old friend had slipped out of his thoughts almost entirely. On that night, John was working the night shift in the accident and emergency at St Mungos.

                He had just dealt with a man whose had come in because all his fingers were melted together into some kind of single tentacle, his muggle wife amazed and disgusted in turn. He could always tell the muggle parents and spouses, who, even when they had married into and lived in the wizarding world, could never quite disguise their awe at the chaos that was the lobby, where all manner of magical ailments made themselves known, usually through loud noises or puffs of coloured smoke. This was the fifth one tonight that had been a random curse on a mixed marriage; and probably the twentieth this month. Things were, undeniably, getting worse. It was no wonder people were scared. Still, he had no doubt that there were good people on the case, and he would do his part here, doing what he could for the victims of this invisible but all-encompassing war. He sorted out the tentacle relatively easily and, bidding them goodnight, looked around; pleased to see the place was quiet and nearly empty. He only had an hour left on shift. He wondered if Molly was on a night shift too; it was always comforting to think of her working two floors below. Maybe she would want to get some coffee on the way home. Then he remembered the coat and scarf, and, frowning, decided he couldn’t deal with that yet.

                He was thinking all this when Sherlock himself toppled out of one of the fireplaces. It had been years, but even from a distance, John could recognise his old friend’s profile. Sherlock nearly fell over the grate, then managed two steps and collapsed. John ran over, reaching him along with a few others.

                “Sherlock! What on earth happened?!”

                The man was in a dreadful state. He was thinner than John remembered, much thinner- he didn’t look like he had been eating. He removed Sherlock’s scarf to help him breathe, seeing over the top of his shirt evidence of heavy bruising, old, nearly healed. The man was deathly pale, his eyes, which had always been so piercing, looked vague and confused.

                “Sherlock.” John said again, more calmly, with more authority- speaking as a doctor. “It’s me, John. John, from Hogwarts.”

                “I know who you are.” Sherlock said, every word weighted heavily. “Go away.”

                “Good to see you too.” John couldn’t help but smile at his rudeness. Irritating as it was, it was good to see the same old Sherlock. He began checking him over for injuries, finding cuts and bruises of different ages, clearly his friend had been busy to say the least. He couldn’t, however, find anything to explain Sherlock’s current state, yet his friend was almost at death’s door. Some nasty curse had been levelled here. Sherlock was swatting at him. John brushed him off easily, but then realised Sherlock was doing his best to push him away; he just didn’t have the strength. “Sherlock, I’m trying to help you!”

                “I don’t want you involved, John.” Sherlock said, breathless, weak, but as usual refusing to let it stop him from doing anything. “Please.”

                That plea rattled John more than anything else. It meant danger. It meant something serious was going on. He still remembered that last day at Hogwarts: “There's an ill wind coming, like we’ve never seen before, John. It’ll be cold and bitter and people will…” Sherlock had never finished that sentence, but somehow, John knew, all his natural intuition pointing at it- this, tonight, was the end of the sentence. His neck was breaking out in goosebumps. He shook his head, both to get rid of them and to refuse Sherlock’s request.

                “How did you even get here?” He asked, changing subject. “You can barely walk. Are you here alone?”

                “I’m always alone.”

                John was a little taken aback at that. Kneeling by his friend’s side, it felt like the intervening years and hurts had never happened, at least to him. What Sherlock said simply wasn’t true, or hadn’t been. Back then, none of them had been alone.

 

 

 

*

 

_August, 1963_

 

England in the summer was boring. This much John had decided before now, but it was particularly bad this time. Previous summers in his homeland had been spent in the family barracks, which had a few interesting places to look into and, if all else failed, there were at least the other army children to play football or cricket with. Besides, that had meant his father was there too. His father was not here this time, and there weren’t any other children. This was the peril of transferring into a normal school so late in the term; you didn’t know anyone well enough before the long holidays.

                Of course, John was used to changing schools at a moment’s notice midway through a term, as his parents jobs took them from place to place. Occasionally he fantasised about what it would be like if his mother was one of the wives that waited at home rather than a translator and general secretary for the army, but he had never seriously wanted to settle. His father had been a logistics man and he and John’s mother had met, fallen in love and married on the same tour of duty. John had grown up moving from country to country, with the odd school term here and there on English soil. It was fine, though. He preferred it that way. Summer in Hong Kong at least was a little more interesting than here. At least then there was always the game of finding a new way to sneak away from base and finding somewhere new and exciting to explore. Here, there was nothing. Just houses and roads and the odd tree. And it was super-safe. He used to be left to his own devices all day, now his mother nagged him to be home by sunset, home by lunchtime. It was annoying, but he did it. He thought it might be something to do with his father’s death that she wanted to keep her son close. She had retired from the army now and they had moved back to Chelsea. John supposed it was the stable life from now on.

                So. Now it was summer, in England. His mother had gone to the supermarket that morning, so John had lied and said he had plans, dreading the idea of trailing round after her as she agonised over every item. She had smiled and said he was right, it was too nice a day to be indoors. John had agreed; the sun was at least shining and the large man across the road was mowing his front lawn without his shirt on, a sight no-one needed to see but proved it was warm. In spite of this, John had gone out wearing a light jacket. Even after two months, he hadn’t adjusted to the cooler climate.

                At first he had just wandered aimlessly, amusing himself for a little while kicking a cheese and onion crisp packet along, wishing he had a proper ball. After a few minutes of this ill treatment, however, the packet ripped in two and his game was over. There was only one thing left to do.

                He had been told, of course, not to play by the big house on the hill. Just outside of the main hub of the town was a road that sloped up to a big manor house, surrounded by trees and some imposing cast iron gates. Some rich family lived there and had guard dogs patrolling at all times; or so people said. Some people said there were children, but they didn’t go to the local primary school and there was a lot of curiosity about them.  John didn’t really care. After seeing rich oil oligarchs, these guys had nothing. High gates and guard dogs were nothing; John had seen one with twelve young daughters who all had to dress all in black and cover every inch of their skin and came outside once a day to walk in a line round the grounds, while the man’s next door neighbour on the left partied hard with call girls and booze and the one on the right lived an understated life with his family, gave generously, but always insisted on total silence when he was watching American baseball.  Rich people didn’t really interest John, the novelty had worn off. What did interest him about the house on the hill were the trees. They were thick fir trees that cut off the view of the house, with very few footholds lower down, but, John reckoned, the bark on the bottom would be rough enough to climb- at least now, before he got too tall. Some of the trees, he reasoned, must be outside the fence. Today he would go there and climb one, all the way to the top.

                The house was further away than it looked, and the hill a lot steeper. Somehow the climb seemed much harder, the day much hotter. He was sweating before he was even half way up. He wanted to stop and rest, or better yet, turn around and go downhill, but he set his teeth, fixing his eyes on one of the iron pines. He was right, there were some outside the fence; and the one he had his eye on was the tallest and the widest.  He would need to be three times his actual height at least to reach the lowest branches, he thought. But he would get to the top. He would. So instead of sitting down or turning back, he took off his jacket and struggled on, even though his legs burnt with the effort.

                It seemed to take twice as long as it should have done for John to reach the tree. By the time he got there and pressed his hand to the rough bark, his fingers were trembling and his palm was sweating as much as the rest of him. The climb up the hill had been much harder than it should have been almost as if, John thought, the house somehow didn’t want him here.

                It was a good thing, John told himself sternly, that he was eleven and didn’t believe in curses or ghosts or anything like that anymore. Still, if he had believed in that stuff, this would have been a good place to do it; up close the house was the kind of building that should have had thunder effects and organ music surrounding it twenty-four seven. Yet that wasn’t right either. The place somehow had the atmosphere of a gothic mansion, with crumbling masonry and windswept towers and gruesome gargoyles, but as far as John could see in reality it was just a normal modern mansion, all marble and concrete. Still, he could see the Dracula castle when he shut his eyes, negatives cast onto his eyelids.

                If he was honest, John was starting to get a little unnerved by the atmosphere of this place, so eerie and still. The impulse to give up and run away home was stronger than ever, almost like an actual voice in his head, but John Watson was not a boy that was easily frightened. If he was nervous, that just meant climbing the tree was even more necessary. His father hadn’t been a coward, and neither was he. He gave himself a mental shake and forced his hand to stop trembling. He quickly wiped his palms on his jeans, threw his jacket on the floor and reached as high as he could above his head, beginning to scramble up.

                As soon as he began, he felt better. His breathing settled into a rhythm with his hands and feet, and he entered into a state of concentration which he fancied might be the same as a monk-warrior on the eve of battle. Certainly the tree would be a good place to hide in wait and ambush approaching enemies. No-one would expect him to be up there, tucked away in the branches. He climbed rhythmically, taking his time, testing footholds before putting his weight onto them. When he reached the branches, it was like entering another world. The sound of the traffic was muted and disappeared, and he heard neither bird nor insect. It was the silence that can only fall just before or just after a battle; even the animals sensed there was something wrong with this place. All he heard was the slight rustling of leaves, cut off from the outside world, here in the thick pine needles and the sickly smell of sap. Even on the branches the climb was tough going, each bough thinner and more flexible than the last, his arms and face getting constantly scratched. Still, John climbed steadily until the branches were so fragile that the next one up snapped off his hand. He tried a few more until eventually, forced to concede that he was as close to the top as he was going to get, he shinned along the branch until he could see out of the conifer again, planning to check on how high he was. Instead, he poked his head out to find another head looking back at him.

                John was shocked to find someone else in this silent world, but just about managed to keep his grip on the tree. The other boy grinned back at him. Calming down, John looked properly. The boy looked to be about his age, with pale vampiric skin that for a moment reminded him of his impression of the house. His hair was black, unruly and curly, sticking up all over the place thanks to the climb. He was also up a fir tree, but his was on the other side of the house fence. He must be one of the children that lived there. John suddenly wondered if the boy would tell on him for trespassing. But this tree was outside, so he wasn’t doing anything wrong, and he sat there stoically.

                “You’re not supposed to be able to climb that.” The boy said. He didn’t seem angry, though, if anything he seemed pleased. He was looking at John with such smug expectation that John somehow felt the need to defend himself.

                “I like climbing trees. And it’s not like it’s on your land.”

                The boy’s smirk grew wider. “It is.” He said. “Our land goes right down to the road; or at least that’s where my brother’s repelling charms finish. People say he’s gifted.” He paused, pulling off a pine needle and examining it between his fingers. “He’s not, though, he’s just good at making people think he is. He’ll be so annoyed when he realises you got through.” The idea seemed to cheer him considerably.

                “Got through what?” John was baffled, and a little worried that this odd boy was going to tell on him after all.

                “The charms.” John must have looked blank, because the boy suddenly scowled. “The magic.” He said.

                “I don’t believe in magic. It’s kid’s stuff.” John said gruffly, all the while making the uncomfortable realisation that the boy was in a tree rooted in lower ground, that to be level with John he was on the very highest branches, branches that should have been far too thin to support a child. Should have been, yet they were holding him up fine.

                The boy was grinning again. “You will.” He said, matter-of-factly. “Is it your dad? Or your mom?”

                “What?”

                “That’s dead. It’s your dad, isn’t it?”

                John looked at him suspiciously. Word had gotten round at the school of course, in the few short weeks he had been there before the end of term, but this boy didn’t go to his school. He’d never seen him before. So how did he know?

                “Why?” He asked, cautious. The boy merely laughed.

                “They are so wrong about you.”

                “Who is?”

                “Your dad is dead, but you still don’t cause trouble. They’ll send Sprout for sure. But they’re wrong. Look at you, you have Gryffindor written all over you.”

                John had no idea what he was talking about, and said so. The boy merely shrugged.

                “Give it another week.” He began to climb down the tree. “You just think about it. Things must have happened to you, things that you can’t explain, haven’t they?”

                “No.” John answered. The boy pouted, then rolled his eyes as if John was an idiot. John, resentful, said “What’s your name?”

                “Sherlock Holmes.”

                “John Watson.” John said, a bit reluctantly. He wasn’t entirely sure giving his name to such a weirdo was a good idea.

                “I’ll see you at school then, John.” Sherlock said, and jumped down from the tree. It was far too high a jump, one that should have hurt him, but he landed as lightly as if he had simply hopped down a front step. He obviously knew John was watching in amazement because he turned back and grinned, clearly showing off. John wanted to call down and ask how he had done it, but at that moment he heard an angry voice from the house yelling “Sherlock Holmes, I know you’re doing that on purpose! How many times must I-”at which point Sherlock ran across the grounds and disappeared into some bushes and John decided he should make himself scarce too.

                This time he didn’t resist the little voices on the edge of his mind telling him to run, to run away quickly and go home fast. As he ran, everything Sherlock had said rattled round in his head. How had he known about his father? None of it made sense. He wondered if Gryffindor had anything to do with the griffins in old legends. And what about magic? Sherlock had seemed too old to believe in that kind of thing. But maybe he did know something; otherwise how had the tree held him up? How had he done that jump? But magic wasn’t real. There had to be some trick to it.

                Yet, somehow, he didn’t _sense_ that there was a trick to it. John’s intuition had always been very strong. He always seemed to know when someone was about to enter a room before his ears could consciously pick up any sound, or somehow always knew exactly where to be at a given time. It was like today, he had been looking at those trees for weeks but it was only today that he knew it was the right time to climb them. On the night his father died, he had woken up at 3:14 in the morning, knowing something was wrong. Afterwards, when he managed to steal a look at the death certificate, he saw time of death had been called at 3:14 AM. In the days following, he had convinced himself it was his imagination or a dream, but now he wondered otherwise. Was this something, as Sherlock had put it, that he couldn’t explain? Everything inside him believed Sherlock was telling the truth.

                He was being ridiculous. Stopping at the corner of his road to catch his breath, John decided to push all thoughts of the encounter out of his head. He was being ridiculous, and unless they ended up at the same local secondary school, he wouldn’t see Sherlock Holmes again.

 

*

 

                A week passed without anything notable occurring. John couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, and more than once he considered heading back to the house on the hill and looking for Sherlock. For one thing, he had left his jacket up there, and for another, as much as the other boy had bewildered him, he had fascinated him too. Sherlock had talked nonsense of course, but at least it was the interesting kind of nonsense. John felt he was a bit old for playing pretend, but sometimes when he was bored or couldn’t sleep he’d make up stories for himself. He wondered if this Sherlock was the same way.

                Then, precisely one week after he had met Sherlock, an unusual letter arrived. It came through the letter box in the morning with the other post, but it didn’t have any stamps on it, and was written on heavy parchment, sealed with wax and a ribbon. It was addressed in old fashioned writing to _Mr John Watson_. His mother, baffled by it, brought it up to his room, handing him some scissors to cut the ribbon. John somehow knew, as soon as he saw it, that this is what the strange boy had been talking about. He cut the ribbon and unfolded the letter.

                At the top was a school crest and a banner with something on it in Latin, beneath which was a hand written letter.

 

_Dear Mr Watson,_

_I am pleased to inform you that due to your special talents you have been considered for a place at HOGWARTS SCHOOL. I would like to come over and explain the offer in person, so if you and your parents/guardian could make it convenient to be in at seven o’clock on the evening of 24 th August, we can progress your application. _

_With kind regards,_

_Professor P. Sprout_

_Head of Hufflepuff House_

_Hogwarts School_

                He handed the letter over to his mother to read and played with the wax seal, peeing it off the ribbon and twirling it in his fingers. He was glad he hadn’t broken it. It was the same school crest, featuring a quartered design of a lion, a snake, a badger and some kind of bird. He wondered if this could be the griffin he had been looking for. He could just about make out the writing on the banner: “DRAGO DORMIENS NUNQUAM TITLLANDUS”. He wondered what it meant, though it sounded grand. Perhaps he would go to the library later and try to translate it.

                “Hogwarts?” His mother was saying. “I’ve never heard of it. We certainly didn’t apply there for you. I wonder if the school passed your name on. I have no idea where it is, though. It must be one of those fancy private places in London. Still, I would have thought the school would have told me if they were recommending you; though you were hardly there long enough to make an impression…” She trailed off, looking, as she often did when she was at a loss, at the picture of his father that John had on his chest of drawers. “I… I suppose it could have been one of your dad’s friends…”

                John saw the sadness in her eyes again and couldn’t bear it. He slipped out of the room, leaving her to cry. He felt terrible about it, wanting with all his heart to comfort her, but he knew that if he stayed she would try to cover it up and hide it. She needed to get it out. Besides which, he resented her a little. She hadn’t been the only one who had loved his dad. Didn’t she know John missed him too? But he was gone, so there was no point dwelling on it. She kept trying to talk to him about his dad, but then she’d get upset and John would leave. He wished, sulkily, that she would realise that he didn’t want to talk about it at all.

                He went down to the kitchen and turned the crackly wireless up as high as it would go, so he couldn’t hear her crying. A song was half way through. John recognised it from all the other times he had used the radio to drown out unsavoury thoughts in the last two months. It was Elvis Presley, he thought, the song called ‘Devil in Disguise’.

                _I thought I was in Heaven, but I was sure surprised, Heaven help me, I didn’t see, the devil in your eyes._

John heard this and thought of Sherlock Holmes and the letter for Hogwarts and hoped the song wasn’t an omen.

 

*

 

                The three days before Professor Sprout’s arrival dragged horrendously. His mother still hadn’t begun to look for work again, and while John was off school the two of them rattled around the house together. His mother frequently asked him if he knew anything about it, and he always said no; which wasn’t a lie because he didn’t understand what was happening himself. Anyway, everything Sherlock had told him had been odd, disjointed and still didn’t make sense. Still, he had been right about the week. And Professor Sprout, he was sure Sherlock had said something about that too. During those three days, John headed up in the direction of the house on the hill more than once, only to give in when the sweating and the urge to get away presented itself. He knew he could resist it if he wanted- he had before- but somehow, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know.

                His mother seemed to have decided by Thursday afternoon that it was all a big prank, especially when an exhaustive search of the yellow pages showed no signs of any school called Hogwarts. John, however, wasn’t so sure and would spend many of the empty hours looking at the wax seal, left with the ribbon and the letter next to the photograph of his dad. He was sure his mother would arrange for them to be _out_ on the evening of 24th August, but after they had eaten dinner and she had washed up, she made John do the drying up and disappeared upstairs. When she came back down, she was in a fresh blouse and skirt and had redone her hair and make up. John smiled at her, grateful she was giving this a chance.  It was ten to seven. They waited anxiously.

                The clock ticked past seven. John must have been looking worried, because his mother said “Don’t worry, John, it’s only two minutes.”

                They sat there a moment longer, both of them looking out the living room window towards the street, hoping to see someone approaching the door. A sharp crack in the back garden snapped their attention away, John immediately jumping up and running into the kitchen to look.

                “John, don’t go in the garden!” His mother said, urgently. “It sounds as if a power line has broken.”

                “It’s not a power line.” John replied, not sure how to explain that a woman was standing outside in their scruffy little yard, stooped over examining one of the twisted bushes left behind by the previous owner. She hadn’t noticed John watching, so he looked at her critically. She was a small and round woman, with dull brown hair that was flying everywhere. She was dressed almost like his mother, in a semi-formal kind of blouse and skirt; but the effect was somewhat ruined by the patches of mud on her knees and the wellington boots she was wearing beneath them; as well as the fact she was wearing a large floppy-brimmed straw hat. It was like, John thought, she had dressed herself based off pictures of what people wore. Somehow he knew he was right. He was beginning to listen to his instinct more, since the meeting with the weird boy up at the fancy house and the first letter. As he watched, the woman slyly cut off a small piece of the bush and ferreted it away under her hat. John couldn’t help but smile, the situation seemed so ludicrous. His mother, however, seemed bewildered.

                “That’s common theft.” She muttered. “And how did she get into the garden? She doesn’t look like she could get over the fence. I bet that’s what that noise was, she must have damaged it…” She was looking towards the living room, towards the picture of his father again. John resisted the urge to go and turn it around.

                “Let’s go and say hello.” He said, reaching out to the back door.

                “Stop.” His mother commanded. “Don’t be silly, John. Professors are old men with beards. That can’t be him, she’s probably just a bit gone in the head. I’ll call the police.”

                Just then however, the woman in the garden stepped briskly up the garden and knocked the door, so John opened it before his mother could stop him. The woman smiled broadly, and came in.

                “Good evening.” She said, taking off her ridiculous hat without revealing the cutting hidden inside it. “You must be John, and you must be Mrs Watson. Thank you so much for being in, it does make things easier. I’m Pomona Sprout. I’m a professor at Hogwarts.”

                “You’d better come in.” His mother said, with a pursed lips look that John knew meant trouble. His mother trusted her instincts too; with her first impressions meant everything. Still, Professor Sprout didn’t seem to notice, chattering away happily as she removed her muddy boots and breezed into the living room, looking at the various potted plants dotted around before she sat. John felt slightly uncomfortable. The plants were all in various stages of decay. The first week they had been here, his mother had filled the place with plants and flowers, perhaps to prove all was beautiful and well and right in the world. Except of course it wasn’t, and the plants had been gradually forgotten.

                “Well, I’m sure we can perk this one up a little.” Professor Sprout said cheerfully, keeping her back to John and doing something he couldn’t see. When she stepped away, the plant did indeed look a lot healthier. He wondered if she had put something in the soil; but in his racing heart, all he could hear was Sherlock Holmes and his talk of magic. “That’s better.” Professor Sprout sat down, accepted a cup of tea and proceeded to fill it with sugar.

                “Lovely.” She said, smacking her lips. “Much better than the stuff we get up at the school, but oh, the hot chocolate there is divine.”

                “I’d like to hear a little more about the school.” John’s mother said. “Hogwarts. I’ve never even heard of it. We certainly didn’t apply.”

                “It’s not the kind of school you apply to.” Professor Sprout said, delicately. She laid her cup carefully down on the saucer. “Hogwarts is a boarding school, Mrs Watson, for young witches and wizards.”

                John leant forward in his seat, hooked by what she was saying, but his mother’s eyes narrowed.

                “Excuse me?”

                “I’m sorry, perhaps I’m not explaining very well.” The round woman seemed a little nervous now. “I was only made head of house last year, so it’s my first time making one of these visits…”

                “I’m afraid this is a very poor time to be playing a prank.” Mrs Watson answered, ice in every word.

                “It’s no prank. I can assure you, Hogwarts is the finest wizarding school in the country, and with Professor Dumbledore as headmaster it’s really been going from strength to strength. John would be well looked after, and taught to use and control his natural abilities.”

                “And what abilities are those supposed to be?” Clearly, she didn’t believe a word of it.

                “Well, magic, of course! It appears from time to time in muggle-born children. Your son is quite gifted.” She smiled kindly at John, her nose and the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I’m sure you know what I mean, don’t you, John?”

                John realised with no small sense of alarm that now, for the first time, he was expected to contribute to the conversation.

                “Um…” He began, intelligently. “I suppose so. I mean, sometimes I just… I can sense things. Before they happen, sometimes, or, or, just if someone is coming, or…” He trailed off, realising how pathetic he sounded, but Professor Sprout seemed pleased.

                “Quite right, quite right.” She said, cheery as ever. “I don’t mind telling you, John, you were something of a border line case. Most young people, their magic comes out as something more obvious and physical. Young Sherlock Holmes up the road, for example, now, there’s a prodigy for you. Oh, the Ministry has had endless problems with him! He says he can’t control it but I’ll eat my hat if that’s the case. But yours, John, your talent is a lot more subtle, and more special. Some of the Ministers, they wanted to leave you where you were, but when they consulted Dumbledore he said you obviously had great potential. Maybe you’ll even be a seer one day!” She beamed as if this should be something he should be incredibly proud of. John smiled shakily back, although in reality he had no idea what most of what she had said meant.

                “I’m sorry,” John’s mother interrupted in the kind of voice that showed she wasn’t sorry at all. “But all this magic stuff is nonsense, and I’ll thank you not to fill my son’s head with it! John, go upstairs while I talk to this ‘professor’ alone.”

                John hesitated, looking desperately at Professor Sprout. She didn’t seem particularly put out, and asked, gently “Perhaps you would let me demonstrate, Mrs Watson?”

                “No thank you, you needn’t waste your time with cheap conjuring tricks.”

                “No tricks, I promise. Why don’t you suggest something, John?”

                John, suddenly put on the spot, racked his brains. He didn’t think it would endear his mother to the world opening up before him if he requested something too potentially destructive, and that was all his pressured brain was coming up with. Finally, he hit on something.

                “That cutting you took from our bush. Can you… make it grow or something? Like you did to the plant over there?” He indicated the house plant.

                “Oh, you noticed.” She seemed pleased. “Herbology is my speciality, you see, that’s what I teach. Of course, I normally do it with soil and patience, not with magic. That’s much more in the transfiguration vein, and I’m not familiar with this plant. But, I suppose I can try…” While she had been speaking, she had sheepishly removed the small offcut from the inside of her hat and laid it carefully on the floor. From the waistband of her skirt she pulled out a length of polished wood that appeared to be a wand and pointed it at the little twig, saying “Crescere!”. The twig immediately twitched, and began to stretch and split. Under the careful direction of Professor Sprout’s wand, it shaped itself into a neat little round bush, that appeared to be growing out of the floor.

                “Lovely.” Professor Sprout seemed satisfied with her work. “I may take it with me, if you don’t mind. It would look lovely on the corner of the vegetable garden.”

                John and his mother were looking at the bush in silent amazement.

                “Ah, you need time to take it all in.” Professor Sprout noted, looking between them. “I’ll go and take a little wander in your garden, then, until you’re ready.” She went.

                John and his mother sat in silence for a while. For John, it was the sudden realisation that this was all real. Those things in the back of his mind that he had always half-suspected and always dismissed, they were true. He was going to go to this Hogwarts and learn to do magic!

                “…Well.” His mother said eventually, shakily. “I suppose we had better listen to what she has to say.”

                John went over to her and hugged her, suddenly thankful he had such an understanding and unshakable mother.

               

*

 

                John didn’t remain grateful for long. After a tactful amount of time, Professor Sprout returned and gave John his proper offer letter. This one, as well as offering him a place, contained a kit list of books and supplies and gave the details of how to catch the school train. The titles all sounded exotic and exciting, as did the rest of the school as Professor Sprout told them more about Hogwarts and the Wizarding World. She explained about the secrecy laws and the wizard government, about ‘muggles’ and changing money and the kinds of jobs that were around. Finally, John’s mother shook her head.

                “I’ll have to think about it.”

                “Mom! I want to go!” John said, desperately. The idea of staying on in this dull suburb seemed even worse now.

                “We need to talk about it, John.” She was looking at Professor Sprout still. “I don’t like the idea of boarding schools, never have. And John did well on his eleven plus. He has a place at St Edmond’s. It’s a grammar school.”

                Professor Sprout looked confused, clearly not familiar with the intricacies of the muggle school system.  “Hogwarts is a world leader in the education of young wizards.” She said, in her most reassuring voice. “All our students find their way into work. And he’ll be well looked after; we have a house system so we can support everyone properly. I’m the head of Hufflepuff house. Of course, he’ll have to be sorted properly once he starts at school, but he seems to have all the attributes of my house.” She looked at John with some pride, as if this was a great honour. “And there will be other muggle-born children there. It’s more common than you’d think. Actually, we have another girl starting in very similar circumstances; her father was also in your army and…” She trailed off, awkwardly. “Anyway, I have no doubt he’ll be able to make friends.” But John’s mother was shaking her head again.

                “It’s the secrecy that bothers me.” She said. “You say he can get a job, but he wouldn’t be studying maths or science or English. He could only get a job in your world.”

                “Well, I suppose that’s true, but...”

                “And anyway, why keep it secret? Don’t you realise how helpful magic could be to us?”  John could hear the note of her throat tightening. His mother was upset. Professor Sprout must have heard it too, because she said nothing, allowing her to haltingly continue. “I mean… I mean, could magic have saved my husband?”

                “Perhaps.” Professor Sprout admitted, gently. “But it can’t do everything. We keep ourselves hidden away because there would be so much suspicion of us and our kind, so much potential for abuse- one way or the other. It just seemed better.”

                “Then… can it… could you help my husband now?” She had her eyes fixed on the photograph on the mantelpiece, unable to look at either of them. John wondered if she was ashamed.

                “I’m sorry.” Professor Sprout said again. “I’m afraid death is the end for us, too.”

                Mrs Watson nodded and looked at the floor, pulling herself together.

                “I appreciate how hard this must be for you.” Professor Sprout said, obviously at a loss for what to say. “But we needed to give you adequate time to prepare. There is a local wizarding family nearby- I mentioned the Holmes? The elder brother Mycroft just left us this summer. He’s… well, I won’t deny he’s a bit of a snob, but he’s a good boy really. Very talented, and most devoted as head boy. His younger brother is starting at Hogwarts this September, so I’ve arranged for them to accompany you to Diagon Alley on Saturday, so John can get everything he needs in good time for-”

                “If you appreciate how hard it is,” Mrs Watson said “Perhaps you realise how hard it would be for John and I to be apart right now. He just lost his father. I’m not sure this is the right time for him to be leaving home.”

                “I quite understand.” Professor Sprout said, sadly, ignoring the glare John was firing at his mother. John interrupted.

                “I want to come, Professor! I need to get out of here!”

                “John, we must respect your mother’s wishes- both of us.” Professor Sprout said, stern for the first time. “But, Mrs Watson, I will ask the two of you to think this over and talk it out. John’s place will be held until the beginning of the term, so if you change your mind, all he needs to do is come and catch the train as normal.” She smiled, shaking them both by the hand. “I hope to see you in September, John. All the best.”

                With that, she strode out into the garden, turned on the spot and disappeared.

                “It’s not right.” His mother said, shaking her head. “You must see it John. It’s not natural.”

                John said nothing, marching up to his room in silence.

 

*

 

                Over the next few days, the atmosphere in the Watson household was a tense one. Sometimes they tried to talk it out, but most of the time it ended up with his mother angry and John sulking. She said he hadn’t grieved properly for his father, and shouldn’t be going away at the moment. He couldn’t get her to understand that he didn’t need to grieve; that his dad was gone, yes, and John would miss him, yes, but those things would both be true for the rest of his life, so he wasn’t going to sit around moping and crying. Anyway, his dad was a soldier, you had to be prepared for this kind of thing. Even if your dad was just part of the Far East Command and there wasn’t supposed to be any risk.

                By Friday, his mother still didn’t want him to go and John still hoped to change her mind. He knew her real motivation wasn’t just that she was worried about him going or that he wouldn’t be able to get a normal job afterwards, it was that she didn’t want to be alone. John was angry at her selfishness, and tried to ignore the little guilty whispers at the back of his mind that said he should stay with her right now. About three in the afternoon, they had a blazing row about it and John ended up storming out. He fought his way back up to Sherlock’s house, hoping to speak with him, but the boy was nowhere in sight so John amused himself by climbing as many of the trees outside the fence as he could before it got dark. He told his mom he didn’t want any dinner and went up to his room. He expected her to come up and make amends, but she didn’t. Later, he heard her crying uncontrollably in her room, and buried his head under his pillow so he wouldn’t have to hear it.

                The next morning at breakfast his natural kindness had resurfaced and was reproaching him, in spite of the still tender wound that she was going to deny him such an amazing experience. Trying not to think about it, he chatted as normally as he could. His mother smiled gratefully and suggested they see if they could get any tickets for the match that afternoon. John privately thought even watching Chelsea play at home wouldn’t make up for missing out on a lifetime of magic, painfully aware he could have been going to buy a wand today, but seeing how red her eyes were, he replied that he’d enjoy that. His mother smiled again and collected his bowl to wash up. John stood to leave the table at the exact moment the doorbell rang.

                “It must be the postman.” His mother said. “I hope it’s not for the old owners again. Open the door and check, would you, Johnny?”

                _Johnny_. John tried not to wince, he hated that pet name. Obviously, she was trying to pretend everything was fine between them just like he was. He opened the door and, to his shock, found Sherlock there.

                “You didn’t come to the house.” Sherlock informed him, not smiling. “So we’ve had to come to get you.” He was wearing a Chelsea shirt, which surprised John; but then he supposed it was a match day and the Holmes were rich. They probably had a season ticket. John felt a slight stab of jealousy.

                “My mom didn’t want to go.” He said, as his mom came out to join him.

                “Who’s this?” She asked, nodding at Sherlock.

                “This is-”

                “Chris.” Said Sherlock. “I’m John’s friend from school, Mrs Watson. My dad can’t come to the football anymore so we have a spare ticket. My big brother is taking us, he’s very reliable. Can John come please?”

                John blinked and tried not to look too surprised. Sherlock had spat this all out in a rapid fire breathless kind of lisp, completely different to his normal voice. Still, it worked. His mother, pleased that John had made a friend at school and that he would have something to take his mind off Hogwarts, agreed with relief and after another minute or two the boys had been waved off and had rounded the corner.

                “I’m glad wizards like football too.” John commented, after they had laughed over their victory. In the back of his mind, the two pressing problems of how to convince his mother to let him go to the school once he had his stuff and how to pay for his stuff in the first place presented themselves over and over, so he hoped for a good conversation to take his mind off it. “Do you have your own league?”

                “No.” Sherlock answered. “We don’t like football. This is your shirt.”

                “My… pardon?”

                “I got it from your room before I came down.” Sherlock grinned, looking very pleased with himself as he pulled it off, revealing a plain black t-shirt underneath. He held John’s shirt up and looked at the back of it with interest. “What is a Tambling and why are there eleven of it?”

               

*

 

                “Come along, keep up.”

                They were walking down a street in central London that wasn’t that familiar to John, though he thought he may have been down it once before. They had met Sherlock’s brother at the train station, who proved to be a bulky eighteen year old, with eyes just as glittering as his younger brother’s. He had shaken John’s hand, introducing himself as Mycroft, and asking him to get their train tickets as, he explained, they didn’t usually travel this way. John had felt suddenly ashamed somehow, as if he needed to apologise for this distinctly non-magical method of transportation, not helped when he was passed an entire pound note to pay with and got suspicious looks from all the staff; and that only after he had prised it away from an ever-curious Sherlock, who then proceeded to sulk the entire journey into town. John had begun to wonder if this was all a mistake, even more so when Mycroft seemed to be marching purposefully right into the back of beyond and Sherlock seemed to feel that the more he was told to keep up, the more it was his duty to lag behind.  Not that John minded. The street they were walking along made him feel oddly unwelcome. Like the Holmes’ house, he felt it was designed to try and keep him out; more muggle-repelling charms, he supposed. He wasn’t sure why he was carrying on, but he gritted his teeth and stayed in line with Sherlock, who he suspected sensed his discomfort and was enjoying it.

                “Ah, here we are.” Mycroft said, stopping in front of an unnoticeable building. John glanced at it, but found his eyes drawn to the more interesting shops on either side, sliding over his destination to the goodies on display in the windows next to it. He realised both the Holmes brothers were watching him and wondered if this was some sort of test to check he was really a wizard. He forced his eyes to stay focused ahead, resisting the urge to hold them in place with his fingers. In front of him was a disreputable looking pub, with a filthy sign above it proclaiming it to be ‘The Leaky Cauldron’.

                “I do so hate coming through this way.” Mycroft tutted. “Just stay close, boys, and don’t touch anything. You’d probably catch some sort of disease.”

                John, realising he couldn’t even see through the windows because of the grime, was inclined to agree, but Sherlock took the lead, purposefully brushing against the doorframe in an exaggerated fashion. Mycroft merely rolled his eyes and waved John through ahead of him. He rushed them through so quickly that John barely had time to get an impression of a dim and dingy room full of cloaked, oddly dressed people, and what he thought was potentially a satyr before they were outside again, in a tiny yard; the whole place reeking with the stench of the dustbins. So far, John decided, the wizard world was rather disappointing. Sherlock sat down on one of the bins, still in a bad mood, while Mycroft ferreted about in the pocket of his coat. He pulled out a stick- another wand, John assumed- about eleven or twelve inches long, thicker than the Professor’s had been, and made of a darker wood.

                “Ah, admiring it, are you?” Mycroft looked approving. “This is my wand. It was made specially in Germany by Gregorovitch, before he moved here. Most people at school will have Ollivader’s, which are fine of course, but between you and I, I think Gregorovitch surpasses him. All the Holmes’ wands have been made by Gregorovitch. Except,” here he smiled sweetly at Sherlock. “We’ll be getting Sherlock’s from Ollivander’s with yours. Mother didn’t want to risk him getting hold of one with Veela hair for a core. Sherlock is quite temperamental enough, you see.”

                Sherlock scowled. John tried not to look confused. Mycroft was obviously waiting for him to ask questions and, for some reason, John felt equally determined not to satisfy that urge. Mycroft had been friendly and helpful enough, explaining things where he felt it necessary, but John somehow knew every question he had to ask dropped him lower in the older boy’s estimations.

                “Very well.” Mycroft said, after a brief pause. “Well, John, pay attention. Next time you may have to do this alone. Begin at the rubbish bin. Sherlock, move.”

                Sherlock didn’t, but Mycroft pretended he had and continued.

                “You begin with the brick over the centre of the lid, here.” He gestured with the wand at a brick behind Sherlock’s back. “You count three bricks up and two across, and then simply tap it with your wand.”

He drew his hand back to do just that, but before he could John blurted out “Can I do it?”

Mycroft looked surprised, but then smiled. “Well, you certainly are fearless. I can’t think why they sent Professor Sprout to talk to you. You’re obviously going to be in Gryffindor.”

“That’s exactly what I said.” Sherlock agreed, and for the first time, the brothers smiled briefly at each other. John wondered if bonding over their own cleverness was the only time they got on; and thought that, if it was, this was going to be a very long day.

  “For future reference, John.” Mycroft said, handing his wand over. “It’s very bad etiquette to borrow someone else’s wand. Still, it’s no matter, just this once. Just give it a nice sharp tap. Gently though, don’t damage it.”

John quickly recounted the bricks to make sure he was aiming in the right place and then, raising his arm, did his best attempt at a gentle-yet-sharp tap. He was just thinking how embarrassing it would be if nothing at all happened when finally something did and the brick he had tapped on sank back into the wall, pulling the rest of them back with it until they were folded neatly away and an archway had opened up before them.

“Splendid.” Mycroft said briskly, reclaiming his wand and subtly wiping it on a handkerchief. “On we go, then.” He strode off and John followed, trying not to be too offended.

The moment he entered Diagon Alley, he forgot his woes in favour of being amazed at his surroundings. This was a far cry from the grocery shops and record shops and shoe shops of suburban England; every store had something else new and fascinating in it; and in the street were crowds of people in strange clothes, in long robes and pointed hats. John struggled to keep up with Mycroft and Sherlock who, having seen it all before, were just wading through the crowd in a pre-ordained direction. John was determined not to even blink, so he could take in as much as possible of the brooms, books, potions and animals on display in the shop windows. He remembered his letter had said he could bring an owl, a toad or a cat. He thought a toad might be quite cool, he had spent a lot of time when he was younger catching them in ponds and swamps. Then he remembered that he didn’t have so much as a half-penny on him. The realities of life pulled him away from the fantastic surroundings and back down to earth with a bump. He pushed forward to catch up with his companions.

“Um, excuse me, Mycroft…”

“Yes?”

“It’s just I… I don’t have any money.”

“We assumed as much when Sherlock had to sneak you out of the house.” He waved John away. “Your mother can just pay us back later.”

“But… she might not. I mean, she doesn’t want me to go to Hogwarts-”

Once again, he held up a hand to stem the flow. “Is your mother a good woman, John?”

“Well, y-yes, but…”

“Then I’m sure she’ll come round.” He said airly, though John wasn’t at all sure. “After all, she can’t condemn someone with talents like yours to a muggle life forever.”

“What’s wrong with a muggle life?” John frowned.

“Oh, nothing, of course; but I wouldn’t choose it.” Before John could reply, Mycroft moved on. “Now then, we’ll do robes first, then the books and things, and then wands. It’s the only way we’ll get Sherlock to stand still.” He looked a little concerned.

“I’m sure he’s not that bad…” John ventured, thinking how he would need all the friends he could get at Hogwarts.

“My dear boy, why do you think my parents aren’t here?” Mycroft asked, grabbing his escaping younger brother by the shirt collar and dragging him towards Madame Malkin’s.

 

*

 

                By the time Mycroft announced they would go to Ollivander’s now, John was almost too tired to be excited. Sherlock, it seemed, was extremely easily bored, particularly by clothes shopping, and had decided the time would be best spent by working out as much as he could about Madame Malkin in such an insulting way that the poor woman was almost in tears and would have thrown them out had Mycroft not wielded his natural charms and smoothed the whole thing over, paying almost twice as much for the uniforms than he should have done. John fervently hoped that it wouldn’t be added onto what he had to repay. He also hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t get bored too often. Thankfully, the younger Holmes seemed more interested in the books and potions ingredients, although John noticed he was buying plenty of things that weren’t on their list and hardly anything that was, Mycroft checking through the purchases and adding the necessary items. They also purchased a trunk for John, and had managed to cram most of the shopping into it, Mycroft arranging with a swarthy-faced man to pull it on a cart to await them at the Leaky Cauldron. Free of their burden, they continued up Diagon Alley.

                “Is it just the wands now?” John asked.

                “That’s right.” Mycroft answered. “You’ll still need school badges and ties and so on, but you’ll get those after you’ve been officially sorted into your houses. Although I suppose we could just get them now, as I have no doubt you’ll be in Gryffindor.” His lip curled slightly as if the word was distasteful. “And of course, the Holmes’ are always in Slytherin, so I daresay Sherlock will be in silver and green in September.”

                “No I won’t.” Sherlock put in.

                “Yes you will, Sherlock, you can’t fight it.” The tiredness in Mycroft’s voice made John believe, correctly, that this was an old argument. “It’s in your blood.”

                “No it isn’t.”

                “Sherlock, you are cunning, rebellious and self-motivated. The hat will put you in Slytherin.”

                “No it won’t.”

                “And just how are you going to stop it?”

                “I’ll tell it not to.”

                Mycroft snorted and John decided to jump into the pause.

                “What is all this about houses? I mean, Professor Sprout said that was how you were sorted into classes and dormitories and things, but what about… I mean, a hat?”

                “Yes, the sorting hat. When you arrive at Hogwarts-”

                “Don’t ruin it, Mycroft.” Sherlock interrupted. “Just leave it as a lovely surprise.”  He grinned a sharp toothed grin at John that made his stomach turn over nervously. Somehow he didn’t think it would be a nice surprise at all.

                Ollivander’s was not at all what he had expected a wand shop to be like. He had expected something mystical, something amazing and full of enchantments, displays with wands doing impossible things. Instead, it looked more like a shoe shop, if shoe shops were all dusty and ill-kept, the dull light barely illuminating the stacks of boxes on the walls. Mycroft made John go first, leaving Sherlock sulking, but all three of them knowing he wouldn’t wander off without his wand. Ollivander turned out to be a tiny, wizened old man, with huge eyes like car headlights. John kept thinking of Gollum from the Hobbit, and his yellow eyes that glowed deep under the mountain.  He could imagine Ollivander there, hoarding his precious wands.

                Except, unlike Gollum, Ollivander was very eager to get rid of all his precious wands. He made John try more than seventeen. Some John had barely curled his fingers around before they were snatched away again. He began to feel foolish, not helped by Mycroft’s encouraging words after every failed try, that it was “Always very difficult for the muggle born” and “he must keep trying, he would get there eventually”.  John began to wonder if that was even true. Professor Sprout had said he was a border line case. The wands were meant to help amplify and control their magic, letting it out properly rather than in uncontrolled bursts. But none of them were responding to him. Maybe he wasn’t a wizard after all. At least his mother would be happy.

                “Alright, try this.” Said Mr Ollivander, pulling down the eighteenth box. “It’s an unusual combination, a little experimental on my part. Oak, ten-and-a-quarter inches, unyielding but with a unicorn hair in the core- well, go on, give it a wave.”

                John picked it up reluctantly, not wanting to make a fool of himself, but the moment he did, he found relief coursing through him. That old sixth sense of his was relaxing, a warm feeling spreading up his arm. Suddenly, he had total confidence that this was the right one and he flicked it lightly, knowing that this, at last, was his wand. A stream of yellow sparks came out in a neat flow, coiling down pleasantly onto the counter and settling into a pool.

                “Very nice.” Ollivander said. “You’re a natural, boy.”

                John beamed with pride, he couldn’t help it.

                “You’ll do well with that wand.” Ollivander said, approvingly. “I wasn’t sure where its specialism would lie, but it looks like it’s going to be charms.”

                “Charms.” John repeated.

                “Just take care of it.” Ollivander said, packing it back into the box and glaring at John with his lamp-like eyes, as if he expected to hear that John had broken six wands already. “Alright, next.”

                Sherlock stepped forward to the counter, Ollivander checking the tape measure. While John had been busy testing wands, the tape measure had been measuring Sherlock. On its own. It had been rather distracting. Still, Ollivander looked at it, grunted, and then disappeared into the back.

                “Just don’t get impatient, Sherlock.” Mycroft was warning his brother. “You saw what it was like for John. When you’re buying a premade wand, it will take a few tries to find the right one.”

                “I know.” Sherlock snapped back. John was relieved to see that he actually looked a tiny bit nervous. Maybe he was human after all.

                Ollivander returned with one of his dusty boxes. “Alright, Mr Holmes, try this. Eleven inches, made of willow, very springy, thestral tail hair for the core. Give it a try.”

                Sherlock waved it. Immediately, the counter set on fire. Ollivander and Mycroft stepped forward with their own wands, hastily extinguishing the blaze.

                Ollivander peered hard through the smoke at Sherlock, who was doing his best to look innocent. “Yes, that will do.” He said, eventually. “Though I think with a wand you’ll be a danger to us all.”

                Sherlock looked rather proud of himself. John decided that if he made it to Hogwarts, he would avoid sitting next to Sherlock at all costs.

 

*

 

                The closer John got to home, the more worried he felt. Mycroft and Sherlock had promised to take his trunk and his shopping round the back and sneak it into his room, but still, John worried what was going to happen when his mother found out what he had done. She would feel betrayed. He shifted a bit uncomfortably. His mother needed him right now. Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about leaving her.

                But then, when he thought about staying, it seemed so much worse.  He hesitated in the front garden, wondering what to do. Suddenly, the front door flew open and his mother flew out, made up, in her heels, ready to go out.

                “John!” She said, hugging him. She seemed panicked, not her usual calm self at all. “Oh John, I’m so sorry.”

                “Mom…?”

                “I just thought… I wanted what was best for you… and I thought, sending you away would be… But you can’t miss this chance, John! I don’t know what time wizard shops shut. Maybe if we go straight away, and, and explain to the Holmes’ why we didn’t come this morning, perhaps-”

                “Um…” John shifted uncomfortably. “That boy this morning, mom. That was Sherlock Holmes. They thought you might change your mind, so they took me to get it all. It’s all upstairs. We just need to pay them back. Sorry.”

                His mother looked at him in shock, but then smiled. John was surprised to see it, and wondered why. Then he realised that, even though his mother had smiled since his father had died, this was the first time it went as far as her eyes. She was smiling for real, although still with a touch of sadness. She pulled him close.

                “You’re growing up.” She said. “I think it’s alright for me to tell you… your parents can be wrong. It’s alright to ignore what I tell you sometimes.”

                John nodded, staying close to her. He wasn’t sure what to say.

                “If you had missed out on going to Hogwarts… Oh, John.” She said, regretfully. “But I do have a condition. I want you to keep up your normal studies. You can do your O-levels by correspondence course if it comes to it, like the army children. I just… I want you to be able to come back if you want to.”

                John wanted to protest, but decided against it. He couldn’t risk his mom changing her mind again.

                “Your father would have wanted you to go.” His mother said. “Experience everything, John.”

                That had been one of his dad’s favourite phrases. Hearing the words from his mother’s lips was strange, unnatural. For some reason, it made John realise for real that his old life was over. In a week or so, he would leave this house and his mother, and his old life- his father- would be well and truly gone.

                He had resolved not to cry. His father had been a real man, and real men didn’t cry. John had never cried over his father’s death. But that realisation- realising it was all over- opened a flood gate inside him that made his eyes fill up. His mother didn’t say anything, but hugged him tighter and lead him inside. John just hoped the Holmes weren’t still upstairs.

                A few hours later, John lay in bed, feeling oddly lightened but still unable to sleep. He rolled over to look at the picture of his dad, the first time he had really looked at it. Even in the muted black and white of the photo and the darkness of the room, he could see his father’s eyes were resolute, hopeful; his father one of the few people able to be serious and subdued without ever being miserable. He looked genuinely happy. John’s mother had been right. His dad would have wanted him to go to Hogwarts, and learn magic, and make friends, and try to stop Sherlock from breaking anything. His dad would have been delighted. John felt the excitement build in his chest too. This was going to be, he knew, absolutely amazing.

                “Experience everything, John.” He whispered to himself, then rolled over and went to sleep.


	2. Chapter Two Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's first year at Hogwarts begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for potentially controversial choice of houses for our main protagonists :P This is just my opinion! As previously said, the chapters were so long that they had to be split into parts. Chapter Two is in two parts. Second half tomorrow :)

Chapter Two- Part 1/2

_September, 1963_

 

The next time John met the Holmes’, it was at King’s Cross on 1st September. John and his mother were standing on Platform 9 at ten to eleven, with his school trunk, trying not to notice the conspicuous lack of anyone else who looked like a student. His mother had pulled out the Hogwarts letter again, reading it for the fifth time in the past half an hour.

“We’re in the wrong place.” John said, flatly.

“I don’t see where else it could be.” His mother replied. “This is platform 9, and we’re even three-quarters of the way along it…”

“We should have come down with Sherlock and his brother.” John said grumpily, although he knew that it would have been impossible. He had been up to the house on the hill a few times over the last few days, only to find the imposing gates shut up tight and no answer when he tugged on the ancient bell pull that didn’t seem to connect to anything. They were alone.

“I’ll try asking the guard again.” His mother sighed. “Though he gave me an odd enough look before… oh!” John turned to see what had surprised her, and couldn’t help breaking out into a grin when he saw the Holmes’ approaching, Sherlock’s untidy mop of curls immediately recognisable. Mycroft sauntered up to John’s mother.

“Good morning, Mrs Watson.” He said, shaking her hand. “I am Mycroft Holmes, I’m acquainted with your son. Sherlock was very agitated when he didn’t see John on the platform. We supposed we might find you here.”

“So this isn’t the right place after all; I didn’t think it could be.” Mrs Watson said. “But John’s letter said platform nine and three-quarters, so I assumed…”

“Our world is very different to yours, Mrs Watson.” Mycroft replied. “Assume nothing.” He produced a large pocket watch and checked the time. “Now, we don’t have long, so if you would come this way…”

As his mother and Mycroft drew ahead, his mother pulling out her purse to repay Mycroft for John’s school kit, John hung back beside Sherlock.

“Was your brother born middle aged?” He asked in a whisper. Sherlock laughed and John realised that the thing around Sherlock’s pale neck, which John had taken to be a rather poorly chosen scarf was, in fact, a living thing, lazily pulling itself back into position. Specifically, it was a cream-coloured ferret.

“What’s that?” John asked.

“It’s a cat.” Sherlock answered.

“No it isn’t.” John replied, as the ferret blinked innocent brown eyes at him. “It’s a ferret.”

“No, it’s a cat.” Sherlock said, flatly.

“Sherlock, that’s a ferret.”

“John, please just indulge him.” Mycroft sighed from in front. “It’s not worth the effort, I assure you.”

“But… it’s a ferret. The letter said you could only have an owl, a toad, or a cat. I don’t think they’ll let him keep a ferret.”

“Of course not.” Mycroft said. “Why do you think he’s saying it’s a cat? Here we are.”

John looked, but they didn’t seem to be anywhere, just standing on the concourse between platforms 9 and 10. He couldn’t see any other students around, either. His mother seemed as confused as he was.

“Are you sure, Mycroft?” She asked, diplomatically, glancing anxiously at the station clock.

“Excuse me, Mrs Watson?” Sherlock stepped forward.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Sorry, but it’s easier this way.” He didn’t sound very sorry. Before John could do anything,  Sherlock shoved his mother hard and Mrs Watson simply disappeared.

Sherlock laughed, but stopped abruptly when John grabbed his collar, sending the ferret/cat scurrying away in alarm. Mycroft grabbed it with an expression of distaste.

“What did you do?!” John demanded.

“Nothing, she’s fine.”

“She’s not fine, she’s gone! Was that magic?! What have you done?!”

“John, please don’t cause a scene.” Mycroft sighed. “She really is fine.”

“Shut up, Mycroft!”

Sherlock burst out laughing. Mycroft pulled a rather sour face. Clearly he wasn’t used to being told to shut up by anyone other than Sherlock.

“It’s not funny!” John shouted. “What did you do to my mom?!”

“This.” Sherlock answered, suddenly heaving them both sideways, towards the solid brick of a support column. Except it wasn’t solid, and they fell right through it, staggering onto another platform on the other side. John, regaining his footing, gaped open mouthed. Magic, and he hadn’t even sensed it. His mother was there, and came over to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. John could see that she was trying not to laugh, and was glad she had found Sherlock’s tactics amusing rather than offensive seeing as he didn’t expect she would be getting an apology any time soon. A second later Mycroft appeared through the archway behind them, looking disgruntled, puffing a little as he pulled John’s trunk. Sherlock’s was apparently already on the train.

A fine train it was too. As Sherlock reclaimed and fussed over his ferret, John couldn’t take his eyes off the sleek red steam engine. It had been a while since he had seen a proper steam engine here, they had decommissioned Mallard earlier in the year before his return to England.  Anyway, the steam trains he remembered from his childhood were always old things, within months of being taken away, lumbering and slow, filthy and falling apart. This was a fine engine; it looked proud and brand new, and, somehow, he knew it wouldn’t be slow. It had _Hogwarts Express_ written on it, after all. Express it would be, he was sure.

                The platform was beginning to empty because the train was getting ready to leave. All around, parents were giving last pieces of advice, giving one last hug; John’s included. As he half-listened to his mother, he realised Sherlock really didn’t have his parents with him, just Mycroft. To John’s surprise, Mycroft reached out and ruffled his younger brother’s hair, telling he didn’t expect much, but he’d be grateful if Sherlock would at least _try_ to be good _sometimes_. Sherlock just shoved him off and disappeared onto the train, but John smiled at this small sign of affection. He kissed his mother’s cheek, promised to be good, to work hard, to write frequently and be careful, and then followed Sherlock onto the train, eventually finding him in a compartment right at the end of the train, where no-one else had bothered to walk to. Sherlock looked up when he came in, looked like he wanted to say something, but then didn’t, sulkily encouraging the ferret to chase his finger. John went to the nearest door, waved to his mother, who with Mycroft’s help brought his trunk over. John dragged it in and a guard came to shut the door. A moment later, the train began to pull away. John waved to his mother for as long as he could still see her, alarmed to realise that she was starting to cry. She really was all alone now. He wondered if he had done the right thing.

                “Need a hand with your trunk, do you?” Said a cheerful voice, popping out of one of the compartments. “Where are you sitting?”

                “Oh, just down there, thanks.” John smiled, taking one end of the trunk. The boy looked a year or two older than him, in the awkward and dreaded stage of adolescence when his limbs were gangly and out of proportion, and his skin beneath his firey hair was covered in spots. Still, he had a friendly smile, and John was grateful to him as he lifted one end of his case and the older the boy the other, leaving it on a slant.

                “Are you a first year? I’m just about to start third. Name is Arthur Weasley. How do you do?”

                “John Watson.” John replied, trying not to puff too much. The wooden chest was heavy, even between them. “Pleased to meet you.”

                Between them they got the trunk into the very end compartment, where Arthur, standing on one of the seats, managed to get it up into the overhead rack.

                “Thank you.” John said. “Oh, this is my… this is Sherlock Holmes.” Saying ‘friend’ just hadn’t seemed right. He wasn’t sure how he should describe Sherlock.

                “Oh, are you Mycroft’s little brother? He was head boy last year. He was alright.”

                Sherlock ignored him. Annoyed by his rudeness, John continued his introductions to try and cover it up. “Sherlock, this is Arthur Weasley.”

                Sherlock ignored him.

                “Sherlock!”

                Sherlock looked up, examining Arthur, who smiled a little uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “You’re dull.” He informed him. “Go away.”

                Arthur left.

                “Sherlock, that was really rude.” John flopped down onto the opposite side of the compartment, trying to look disapproving rather than amused.

                “You told my brother to shut up.”

                “Oh… yes, sorry about that, but you _had_ just pushed my mom over so…”

                “No, no,” Sherlock protested. “You told Mycroft to shut up, and he did! It was brilliant!”

                This was the first compliment Sherlock ever paid him and there would be precious few to follow in the years to come. John couldn’t help but grin. It _had_ been a good moment. Maybe he should have introduced Sherlock as his friend after all.

 

*

 

                Nobody else came to join them as they continued on their journey towards Hogwarts, perhaps because they were sitting so far down the train, perhaps because Sherlock glared at anyone who happened to pass by in the hall. John didn’t mind. Sherlock was in a talkative mood, and had been telling John fascinating things about the wizard world and his own home town. He was, John was starting to realise, remarkably clever, a quick thinker and very observant. Sometimes he got impatient if John hadn’t followed his erratic train of thought, but John soon realised that flattery was the way to calm him down. It probably wasn’t good to further inflate his ego, but John decided he would search for a better method when he knew Sherlock a little more.

                Eventually, the conversation turned inevitably to the ferret, who had been busily climbing up the curtains. Sherlock made no move to stop it, watching its progress with interest.

                “So what’s up with the ferret?” John asked.

                “Her name is Agatha. And she’s a cat.”

                “Agatha.” John corrected himself. “Have you always had a ferret?”

                Sherlock shook his head, making his hair more unruly than ever. “She was a gift off my grandmother. That’s where we were last week, we were visiting her in Paris. She gave me Agatha to celebrate starting Hogwarts.”

                “Why a ferret?” John asked. “Sorry, a cat.”

                Sherlock shrugged. “Her brother was an artist.” He said, as if this explained everything, and the two of them watched as Agatha made it to the top of the curtain and wandered along the rail.

                John tried to work out what he meant and gave up, unsure what significance ferrets had to art. “So?” He asked.

                Sherlock looked at him with a surprised expression that would, over time, become irritatingly familiar, as if shocked that John didn’t get it. “Art in the blood.” He said. “It breeds eccentrics.”

                John thought about all that he had seen of Sherlock and Mycroft and felt inclined to agree.

                “My grandmother,” Sherlock continued with a grin. “Is a private detective. Scrying spells are her speciality. Scrying and finding spells.” He paused, thinking. “And explosions.”

                John made a mental note to stay out of Paris and wondered if Sherlock took very strongly after his grandmother. The idea of a little old lady version of his new friend made him smile, and he thought he might like to visit after all.

                “She taught us a game when we were little.” Sherlock said, warily. John could tell he wasn’t sure about telling him this and so smiled as encouragingly as he could. Sherlock continued. “An observation and deduction game.”

                “What? Like spying?”

                “No, John, thinking.” Sherlock scowled, disappointed, and sunk back into his seat, staring sulkily out of the window. Clearly John had said the wrong thing and one wrong thing was enough to make Sherlock change his mind about telling him. Sighing, John sat back himself. This could be a very long journey. When Agatha climbed back down the curtains and settled into John’s lap, Sherlock glared at her like she was a traitor. John petted her defiantly, glad to have one person in the carriage who wasn’t in a mood with him for no reason.

                “Arthur.” Sherlock said, abruptly, petulantly.

                “What about him?”

                “He has at least two brothers, he’s obsessed with muggles, not academically bright, but bless him, he does try hard, and he fancies a girl who is older than him.”

                John blinked. “Do you know him?”

                Sherlock gave him a look that was, if possible, even blacker than before. “No. I just won.” With that, he went back to looking out of the window. The atmosphere weighed down on them.

               

 *

                Sherlock’s sulking aside, the trip was reasonably enjoyable. Agatha was a lively creature always ready to play, chasing fingers or little pieces of paper, and the scenery that was rolling past outside was always changeable and interesting. When they started going through mountains, John really had to wonder if they were even still in England, but decided not to think too deeply about it. Then there was the food. His mother had done him a packed lunch, of course, but then a young woman with a kind smile had appeared with a trolley full of food he had never seen before, all different kinds of sweets with bizarre names. He had a small amount of wizard money that his mother had exchanged with Mycroft while settling their bill at King’s Cross, but the unfamiliar coins felt strange in his hand and he had to ask the lady to explain them so he could work out what he could buy. As it turned out, he had enough for two or three items. He avoided the every flavour beans, figuring that magical or not, jelly beans were jelly beans and elected instead for a pumpkin pastry and some caramelised dew-clovers. He was about to settle on some bubble gum that promised to make bubbles that could float away across the room to conclude his little spree when Sherlock piped up with “Get a chocolate frog.”

                This was the first time Sherlock had spoken in over an hour, so John decided to just do what he said. He paid for his purchases and the woman left. Sherlock was watching him now with guarded interest. He told John to open the frog. Wondering what was so interesting about frog-shaped chocolate, and hoping it wasn’t an actual chocolate-coated frog, John did so. The frog jumped out. John, startled, jumped too and Sherlock laughed. The two of them watched, fascinated, as the frog leapt around their compartment. John couldn’t help laughing with delight. The fun was cut short when Agatha pounced on the frog and proceeded to eat it; but John had to admit, it was a very good catch.

                “What card did you get?” Sherlock asked, nodding at the discarded packet. John, mystified, ripped it further open and found there was indeed a trading card in the bottom. It had some sort of plant on it.

                “Gillyweed.” He read.

                “Common.” Sherlock said in disgust.

                “Common?”

                “They’re trading cards. People collect them. Every five years or so they bring out a new set. Last time they did Cauldrons through the Ages and no-one bothered. They’re hoping more people will collect these. Magical plants and fungus.”

                John couldn’t imagine collecting trading cards of magical plants and fungus, but he pocketed it anyway. It reminded him strongly of the cigarette cards he used to get off his dad. He had almost assembled the entire Chelsea squad. He felt a little stab inside him when he realised he probably wouldn’t ever finish it now; his mother smoked the wrong brand. He decided he would collect these frog cards. His dad would have found them funny.

                “So do you collect them?” John asked.

                “No, I memorise them and discard them.” Sherlock answered, as if this was standard. John hoped and suspected it wasn’t before getting distracted eating his pumpkin pastry. It was an unusual combination of flavours, but not necessarily a bad one. Realising Sherlock wasn’t eating anything, he offered him a piece. Sherlock turned it down, as he did the other sweets, and even John’s ham-and-pickle sandwiches. However, in John’s lunchbox there was a packet of Smarties, which fascinated Sherlock as much as the wizard sweets had John, so John gave them up willingly. Sherlock emptied them out onto the lid of John’s lunchbox and proceeded to arrange them by colour before eating them in different orders and combinations, apparently to see if they tasted discernibly different from one another. He seemed happy, so John left him to it, promising to get him more ‘muggle sweets’ in future.

                Just as they finished the confectionary, Arthur’s face appeared around the door again. “Just thought you’d want to know we’re nearly there.” He said, cheerily. “You might want to get your robes on.”

                “Thank you, that’s very kind.” John answered, not bothering to add that it was particularly kind given how rude Sherlock had been before. Arthur nodded at him and was about to withdraw when he noticed the Smarties box.

                “Oh, goodness, are those muggle sweets? How do they get the chocolate inside the shells?” Arthur looked like he would like to have a closer look at the few remaining Smarties, but before he could, Sherlock had scooped them all up into his mouth and began rolling the tube over the seat for Agatha. Giving up, Arthur shook his head and left in exasperation, clearly peeved.

                “Sherlock.” John sighed. “If you’ve never met him, what do you have against him?”

                “He’s boring.”

                “You don’t know that.”

                “Yes I do. Almost everyone is. That’s why I don’t waste my time on other people.”

                “What about me?”

                “You aren’t boring.”

                The words pleased John perhaps more than they should have done, and he smiled as he pulled his school robes on over his shirt and trousers.

 

 *

                By the time he reached the castle, John felt he had seen enough amazing things to last a lifetime. After getting off the train, he had witnessed horseless carriages lining themselves up to receive students, without anything pulling them or directing them at all. He had been so agog at this that he had almost missed the man calling for the first years; although missing him would have been rather difficult as the man was a good eight or nine feet tall, at least. Probably more. John was sure he felt the whole platform quake when he bellowed in a Black Country accent for the first years to gather round. They did so rather hurriedly and were shepherded onto a lot of little wooden boats. John smiled briefly at the two girls that ended up getting in with them, but was soon distracted by the boats setting off, again on their own, across a wide lake to where, at the top of the hill, glowing in the dark, was a stunning castle. John hadn’t been able to take his eyes off it, knowing somehow that this was something he would never see again, no matter how many times he saw Hogwarts. He had wanted the moment to last forever. So, as they filed through the entry way and up some stairs to the door of what had to be the Great Hall, John was sure nothing inside could be as impressive as everything he had seen outside. He was wrong. After the severe-looking Professor McGonagall had introduced herself and the requirements of the four houses, they were shuffled into alphabetical order and went in procession into the hall. The long tables and the floating candles, the colourful school banners and the sea of people would all have been enough to impress John, even before he saw the enchanted ceiling. Or the singing hat.

                Once the first years had been lined up, a tall stool had been placed on the stage, and on the stool, an old hat. The entire hall had immediately died down, falling silent when it had been brought out, even though to John it looked like nothing but a dirty old hat, faded and patched. Then a rip had opened up and the hat began to sing:

 

_“Slytherin and Gryffindor,_

_Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw,_

_Our proud Hogwarts Houses four,_

  _Each different in the things they prize_

_To find inside young wizard’s minds_

_In Slytherin it’s blood that tests_

_Each new wizard’s worth._

_Ambition and quick-thinking bests_

_All other virtues on Earth._

_But in Gryffindor they disagreed._

_There it’s all about the heart,_

_There bravery and noble deeds_

_Are deemed life’s most vital part._

_At this a Ravenclaw may scoff,_

_For there they prize the brain;_

_Intelligence is all deserving of_

_Rewards, glory or fame._

_Dear Hufflepuffs at this would smile,_

_For more than honour or gold,_

_They know hard work will go the extra mile_

_And love and loyalty give riches a hundred-fold._

_Now, if you’re feeling at a loss,_

_Don’t panic, don’t make a fuss_

_Pop me on, I’m always just_

_And when I’ve looked inside you’ll find_

_Yourself put with others of your kind_

_And with time you will find that_

_You’ll bless the Hogwarts Sorting Hat!”_

The hat finished singing, bending its tip a little in a kind of bow. John clapped and cheered along with the rest of the hall; he hadn’t thought much of the tune, but, credit where it was due, it was being performed by a hat. From further up the queue, Sherlock looked back and grinned at him. John grinned back. Sherlock had been right, it was better to have it as a surprise. Now, though, it was time for the sorting to begin properly. John still had no idea what was going to happen. He envied Sherlock his position somewhere in the middle of the line. Far enough back that you could see what to do and knew what to expect, but not so far back that the wait was agonising. John himself, as a W, had been relegated right to the back, with only a Wilson, Weaver and Yates behind him. Almost everyone would be sorted before him. John just wished they would get on with it.

                Still, all in all, it seemed straight forward. Each student in turn went up to the front, where the Sorting Hat would be put on their head, and after a varying amount of time, presumably as the hat deliberated over which house to put them in, it would be announced and the student would take their new place. Over no-one did the hat hesitate longer than over Sherlock. He took his place on the stool, staring out defiantly. Everyone else had shut their eyes, but no, not Sherlock. He stared out impassively over the hall, for so long that John wondered how he had the nerve. Even the teachers shifted uncertainly, as if worried that this would go on so long they would have to give up. John recalled Sherlock’s conversation with Mycroft and wondered if he really was telling it not to put him in Slytherin. Finally, after what seemed like forever but was later revealed to be seventeen minutes, the hat made its decision.

                “Ravenclaw!” It bellowed, followed by loud applause from the Ravenclaw table. Bedecked in blue and silver, they seemed quite satisfied that the longest sorting in Hogwarts History had ended up in their house. John thought vaguely that they didn’t know what they were getting themselves in for, smiling at Sherlock as he passed. He tried to remember what the hat had said about Ravenclaws. Already the exact words were slipping out of his head, but he was sure it was something about cleverness bringing glory. He wondered if he would be able to get in. He had, after all, been smart enough to pass his 11+ and get into a grammar school. But wizards might have a very different standard to muggles, and he knew nothing about their world. Suddenly a very uncomfortable thought occurred to him. Maybe he was too stupid for this place. Maybe the hat would realise it and say it had all been a mistake. Maybe he would be sitting there, even longer than Sherlock was, for hours, until one of the teachers pulled it off him and apologised for the mistake before sending him home.

                John took a deep breath. He knew he was being silly, and reminded himself that he had never been prone to panic. He calmed himself, knowing that if there had been some mistake it would have been found out by now; and no-one was being sat there as long as Sherlock, who had given up the stool at last to a shy, nervous looking girl named ‘Hooper, Molly’, who looked even more nervous after the boy’s record-breaking performance. John thought she might chew right through her lip, her eyes screwed tightly shut the whole time the hat was thinking. Even so, it only took two minutes for the hat to place her in Gryffindor. There were the usual claps and cheers as she walked, wobbly with relief, to the table draped in red and gold, but John could see some surprise and mutterings at the table. He supposed they were thinking the same thing as him, that Molly hadn’t seen particularly brave. He felt relieved that the hat obviously made allowances for nerves. He made up his mind to try asking if he could be in Ravenclaw with Sherlock- if he could work out how you asked, as so far nobody had seemed to do anything- but, he had to be honest, it was the lion banners that drew him. Mycroft and Sherlock had both said he would end up in Gryffindor, of course, and the peculiar sixth sense inside him seemed to agree. Still, the school seemed to think he showed the promise of being in Hufflepuff. He looked over to their table. They seemed a friendly bunch, and he could probably be happy there. Even so, ‘hard work’ just didn’t sound as exciting as ‘bravery and noble deeds’. His mom would be in Hufflepuff though, he thought with a smile. And his father would have been in Gryffindor, without a doubt. He felt a little pang of sadness again but pushed it aside, forcing his focus back on the sorting. ‘Moran, Sebastian’ was put into Gryffindor, and was succeeded by ‘Moriarty, James’.  Again, the hat was silent. Nervous laughter and whispers began around the hall. Like Sherlock, James was looking out at the hall, his eyes open. Unlike Sherlock, who had seemed bored, James looked like he was trying not to laugh. His eyes twinkled with mirth. He looked like the sort of person you could have fun with. Ten minutes or more passed. John looked over at Sherlock, who, now seated at the Ravenclaw table, was watching with something like actual interest. Sherlock had just set the record, now it seemed James was heading to break it.

                He didn’t make it. This time, the hat made its decision after thirteen minutes, putting James into Slytherin. He didn’t seem to mind, getting up and bowing good naturedly to Sherlock, a pantomime of graceful defeat, to the laughter and applause of the hall. John saw Sherlock nod his head in return, actually smiling slightly. Later, he would tell John he had known James was going to be interesting. James took his seat with the Slytherins and the sorting continued at a more steady pace.

                Finally, the unfortunately named ‘Waters, River’ was being sorted, and John realised it was his turn next. River was a dreamy looking girl with tanned skin and long red hair that curled all down her back and a chain of flowers around her wrist; clearly with parents who were forerunners of the hippy movement. She was sorted into Hufflepuff and floated off, beaming. John realised then with a jolt that it was his turn and he had been so distracted that he hadn’t psyched himself at all. Still, when Professor McGonagall called out ‘Watson, John’, he smoothed his face to look as composed as possible and stepped up to take his turn. He was pleased to see his nerves hadn’t transmitted to his hands, which were completely steady, not trembling at all. He glanced over to the Ravenclaw table. Sherlock was watching. John looked away first, but stared at the doors into the hall. He was determined to keep his eyes open, no matter how long the hat took. He didn’t think Sherlock would respect him if he didn’t.

                John’s mind was racing. He knew he had only seconds to work out what he was going to say to the hat, how he was going to present his case. But did he really want to be in Ravenclaw? He wanted to stick with Sherlock, but there was something about Gryffindor-

                In the end, none of it mattered. The brim of the hat barely grazed his head, McGonagall hadn’t even had time to take her hand away before the hat shouted “Gryffindor!”.

                John sat, dazed, as the hall exploded into laughter. In the same sorting, they seemed to have had the longest deliberations and what had to be one of the shortest. He wasn’t even sure if the hat had touched his head. He was so surprised to find it was all over that McGonagall had to prompt him to leave and take his seat, causing another wave of laughter. However, it wasn’t unkind, and the Gryffindors- who had been by far the rowdiest table throughout- whooped and cheered so loudly it was almost deafening.  They seemed as determined to celebrate this short sorting as the Ravenclaws had been to celebrate a long one. Anyone would have thought he had scored Chelsea’s winning goal on cup final day. John couldn’t help smiling back at them as he went and took his place, even though he knew he really hadn’t done anything.

                For a minute he was engulfed in a blur of shaking hands and pats on the back, then he looked over at his friend. Sherlock was looking rather smug and pleased with himself, obviously glad to have been proven right. A glance over at the staff table rewarded him with a little wave from Professor Sprout, who seemed slightly disappointed but was smiling anyway. John smiled back. Somehow, he could just tell, he was going to be happy here.

                The final three students were sorted, producing two new Hufflepuffs and a Slytherin, and the stool and hat were removed. After that, the headmaster, a Professor Dumbledore, stood up and waved his hands for silence. He got it, immediately. John wondered what he was like, if he was the sort of headteacher that people obeyed out of respect or out of fear. When Dumbledore spoke, he realised it was neither of these things. It was because they liked him.

                “Welcome, welcome, welcome!” He said, gesturing expansively behind his greying beard. “Welcome, one and all, to another year at our dear old Hogwarts. As usual, I am obliged to remind you to please remain outside of the Forbidden Forest, as, after all, the clue is in the name…” John couldn’t help looking at Sherlock when Dumbledore said this. His eyes had lit up alarmingly. John looked away quickly as Dumbledore continued “And this year’s list of banned items, which continues to be a riveting read, is available to all on request from the caretaker’s office, if anyone needs some ideas for mischief. Whether this is your first year with us or your last, I do hope you all will make this another year to remember. Work hard, stuff your empty heads full of knowledge! After all, what use is a long summer break if you have nothing to forget during it? Treasure your friendships and your fun; be young as long as possible! Enjoy yourselves! Delight yourself with knowledge and then you can delight yourself again ignoring it! But for now, I suggest we delight ourselves with what will be, no doubt, another mouth-watering feast.”

                No sooner had he said this and sat down did the promised feast materialise, melting into existence, piled high with breads, meats, pastries, soups, savouries, and all manner of foods. John sat marvelling, not even sure where to start.

                “Goodness me, what did you do?” Arthur was sat a few seats up the bench, and he nodded at the plates directly in front of John. John looked and found that the platters near him had been filled with rice, noodles, fish and curry broths, all the kinds of local foods he had lived on and loved in Hong Kong, that he had been missing since his return to England, where the only local Chinese takeaway had racist slurs graffited onto the walls and the food tasted nothing like authentic.

                “I… I don’t know.” John stammered, lamely. “I didn’t do anything. Not on purpose. I used to live in Hong Kong… Sorry.”

                “Don’t be sorry, it looks delicious!” Arthur answered, and John barely had time to sample a little of the oriental delights himself before the plates disappeared up the table, being shared around. Not that it mattered. After he had cleared his noodles, which were perfect, he moved onto the British dishes. Each of them was entirely perfect. Having grown up in family barracks, with communal kitchens and mess halls, where the women would cook simple meals for fifty people, John had never eaten like this. He wanted to try everything, but forced himself to pace himself.

                 “Hello.” A little voice said to him. John looked up and realised the shy girl was sitting opposite him, the one who had been sorted after Sherlock. He smiled.

                “Hello.”

                “You’re John Watson, aren’t you? They told me to look out for you, my daddy was in the army too. He was stationed in Northern Ireland, until… my name’s Molly, by the way. Molly Hooper. I’m glad we’re in the same house. I was sure I would be in Hufflepuff, I was shocked when the hat said Gryffindor!”

                John was beginning to see why he had been told to look out for her. They seemed to have a lot in common so far. “Are you muggle-born as well, Molly?” He asked.

                “Oh, I’m a bit of everything.” She said, cheerfully. “See, Grandad Hooper is a wizard all through, but Nanny Hooper was muggle-born, then on the other side Grandad Cole was three-quarter blood and Grandma Cole always swore she was a quarter Veela _and_ quarter muggle. Then my daddy turned out squib and my mom got so frightened the day they went to put her on the train that she cried until they let her stay, so I grew up in the muggle world, even though I’m not exactly.”

                All this was said in one breath. John hadn’t caught half of it, and the other half he hadn’t been able to keep track of, so he just nodded and said “I see.”

                Molly obviously knew he was lying because she replied, sagging slightly “Sorry, when I get nervous, I start babbling. People always tell me I talk too much. But I can’t help it, I’m quiet most of the time, so when I get nervous, I don’t want people to know I’m nervous, and I end up talking to try and hide it, and sometimes it works, but if they know I’m quiet normally- Oh, no, I’m doing it again.” She stopped herself, looking shame faced. Seeing her going red, John decided to take pity on her.

                “It’s nice to meet you, Molly.” He said, reaching across to shake her hand. Molly, smiling, grasped his hand and shook it happily, laughing a little at herself. Her laugh changed into a shriek as a ghost came up through the table, right between their arms. John pulled his hand back in shock, rubbing feeling back into it. He had never believed in ghosts, but now the numbness and cold seemed to prove it. If not, the ghost now frowning and extracting himself from the table certainly did.

                “Terribly sorry.” He said. “I was downstairs and realised I was late for the feast. I decided to take a short cut- slightly misjudged the position of the table. Terribly sorry. So…” He surveyed them and the others. “You’re our new first years, are you? Lovely to meet you. I’m Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, resident ghost for Gryffindor.”

                “Nice to meet you.” John replied. “I’m John Watson, this is Molly Hooper.”

                Sir Nicholas seemed pleased that John was so polite. “Charmed, charmed. What do you think of the old place so far?”

                “It’s just… it’s fantastic.” John grinned, still unable to believe his eyes. “Sorry, Sir Nicholas, but are you… are you a ghost?”

                “I beg your pardon?”

                Seeing Sir Nicholas’ face swelling in indignation, John realised he had said completely the wrong thing and he hastily tried to justify himself. “It’s just, I thought you might be an illusion spell or something. I’m sorry, I just didn’t know ghosts were real.”

                “Muggle-born, are you?” Nicholas answered, giving him a piercing look that reminded John irresistibly of Sherlock. He wondered if the ghost would sulk for as long. “Yes, well, I dare say a lot of things will surprise you while you’re here, boy.”

                With that, he drifted off, settling in next to Sebastian Moran further down the benches. John looked at Molly, who was anxiously biting her lip, but then, as John rolled his eyes, giggled nervously. John turned around to look to see if the other Houses had their own ghosts too, and, of course, they did. A jolly looking round man sat with the Hufflepuffs, who were nosily swapping funny tales and laughing; and the Ravenclaw table had two ghosts in attendance, a dour looking lady who sat primly with her hands in her lap, not speaking, and a severe looking man, splattered in silvery gore, speaking to Sherlock.

                “Arthur,” John asked, leaning over the table. “Who is that talking to Sherlock?”

                “Hmm? Your friend?” Arthur looked over. “Oh, that’s the Bloody Baron. He’s the Slytherin Ghost, it’s unusual to see him away from their table. Then again, he was quite keen on Mycroft; first Slytherin head boy since Tom Riddle himself, you know. Maybe Mycroft asked the Baron to look out for his brother?”

                John thought of what he had seen so far of the Holmes brothers and decided this was plausible. As the main courses melted away to be replaced by desserts, he thought to himself how he didn’t envy Sherlock. Sir Nicholas was one thing, but John wasn’t sure he’d want to be watched by someone with blood eternally splattered over their clothes.

 

 *

                Sleepy and full of food, John wasn’t sure how much talk to expect on the first night. He had met all of his roommates at dinner; one was Sebastian, who had grunted his name and said little else, then the other three, George, Charlie and Jack all knew each other from childhood and, while friendly, John somehow sensed were a tight-knit group who wouldn’t make many outside bonds. Nevertheless, when the feast finally drew to a close, the five of them had followed one of the Gryffindor prefects up through the castle. John, weary, took enough note that he would need to explore properly, but decided he was too tired to do so tonight as, while climbing stair after stair, he became convinced that the painted figures in the portraits around him were moving. Then again, as Sir Nicholas had said, he should expect a lot of surprises. It was entirely possible that the portraits were moving. For some reason, the idea made him want to laugh, but he didn’t want to offend anyone else, so he held it in.

                On reaching one of the top corridors, the prefect stopped by a portrait of a grumpy looking man, with a large beard and an even larger axe, swinging it occasionally in the direction of the lion skulking at the edge of the frame, preventing it from getting too close.

                “This them, is it?” He said, gruffly. “Another bunch of weaklings and milksops. Godric must be turning in his grave.”

                “Everyone,” The prefect seemed weary, ignoring this little tirade. “This is Ouimansk, the great warrior of legend. He is the keeper of the Gryffindor common room. In order to enter, you have to give him the password, which will change every week, so keep an eye on the notice boards or ask us prefects.” He turned to the painting and said, clearly: “Lion-heart.”

                “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t let any of you in. There’s not-a-one of you who has ever fought a battle in your lives! You’re not worthy to call yourself Gryffindors!” Ouimansk replied, his eyes cold; but, nevertheless, the painting swung open to reveal a hole, which they scrambled through into a comfortable sitting room, with a roaring fire, plenty of armchairs and tables dotted around. The first year’s bedrooms were on the third floor of the tower, half way up. This was to be their room for the next seven years, each new set of first years occupying the rooms abandoned by the previous seventh years. John wondered what signs of their occupation he would find, but the room seemed almost new, filled with five four poster beds, each with a bedside table. Their luggage had arrived already, John’s trunk at the end of the bed closest to the door. John opened it, locating his pyjamas and the photograph of his father, placing it on the bedside table. He hoped none of the other boys laughed, but decided that if they did, he would punch them and forget about first impressions.

                In spite of their collective tiredness, the boys stayed up late, talking into the night, getting to know each other better. John decided his impressions at dinner had been correct. George, Jack and Charlie were kind enough, including John in the discussion and asking him questions, but they knew each other well, with plenty of shared stories and memories, meaning that often John couldn’t follow what they were saying. Sebastian remained quiet, nearly silent, never commenting, answering questions with single sentences, but he didn’t seem shy. He seemed to be listening intently to everything, laughed with them, but said nothing. Perhaps that was just his way. George fell asleep first, followed by Jack. Charlie and John chatted a little longer, Sebastian reading by candlelight some magazine John couldn’t see the cover of. Then, Charlie headed off to sleep too, and John lay down, knowing he would be asleep almost immediately. He was right, falling asleep just as he heard the curtains draw shut around Sebastian’s bed, the candle still glowing, muted, behind the curtains.

 

 *

                One week later, at breakfast, John gave the owls flying in overhead little more than a cursory glance before returning to his toast. The first morning, when they had all swooped in burdened down with post and forgotten items, he had nearly had a heart attack. Now the sight was already familiar to him. Hogwarts was becoming home, a feeling he had never experienced before, but now recognised it for what it was. The travelling boy who had lived in eight different countries was settling down.  One of the owls came and sat down next to John, a crest hanging round its neck that John immediately recognised.

                “He’s not here.” He told the owl. “You can wait if you like, but I’m not making any guarantees.” If it was possible for owls to look exasperated, this one did. Perhaps its time at the Holmes’ household had taught it to mimic Mycroft’s expressions. The first morning, John had worried that he wouldn’t see much of Sherlock, as his timetable showed that he only had two lessons- Transfiguration and Herbology- with the Ravenclaws. His fears had turned out to be completely unfounded, as on that first morning, Sherlock came and sat next to him at the Gryffindor table. John wondered if it was allowed, as they drew attention from staff and students alike, but none of the teachers nor prefects said anything and the Gryffindors grew used to a Ravenclaw presence at half of their meals. The other half, Sherlock simply didn’t turn up at all. John wondered how he survived on eating so little, and wondered where he went, but had decided he didn’t want to know. The first morning, the Holmes’ owl had circled round the Ravenclaw table looking disgruntled before finally dumping its parcel into the middle of a plate of eggs and bacon and flying away. Sherlock had collected it later and informed John it contained his wand. John had stared, wondering how, even if you were forgetful, you could forget something so vital. Sherlock had just glared and said it wasn’t vital, and gone into one of his sulks. Their friendship was stormy at best, and yet, they seemed to have fallen into a group along with Molly, who, shy as she was, didn’t speak to anyone else in spite of her constantly being either terrified or baffled by Sherlock. Somehow, though, they felt incomplete. That’s what John’s nagging sixth sense was telling him, and from time to time he had tried to draw Sebastian into their conversation, but the other boy had always quietly withdrawn, preferring his own company. John wondered if maybe this was just grief for his father being misplaced, giving him the feeling of something missing. The thought made him uncomfortable, and he was just pondering it, when Sherlock decided to grace them with his presence.

                “A different house elf made the toast this morning.” Was this morning’s greeting as Sherlock looked at the plate of toast with disdain and, swinging himself over the bench, pulled a plate of bacon over, dragged Agatha from his pocket, and, tearing it into pieces with his fingers began offering it to her. If the past week had taught John anything, it was that Agatha was always present, even if she was unnoticed. He had even spotted Sherlock’s pocket moving suspiciously in class. He had tried hard not to think about how a ferret fitted into a pocket. He somehow felt that the less he knew, the less incriminating it would be.

                “Aren’t you eating this morning, Sherlock?” Molly made one of her rare attempts at talking to Sherlock. John hoped Sherlock would reply kindly. Sherlock didn’t, simply staring at her until she looked away and then turned his attention to the owl, which was bad-naturedly pecking at him.

                The envelope, when opened, proved to contain a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ and a short note: _‘Examine page 3. –M’._ While John puzzled over this enigmatic missive, Sherlock told the owl to wait and flipped to page 3. The article was something about a missing family portrait, the wife’s great-great-grandfather, that was of great sentimental and monetary value. Sherlock, however, didn’t seem to be reading the text. He scanned over it, bored, and then settled into a minute examination of the picture. John wanted to ask what he was doing, but again, thought better of it.

                A moment later, Sherlock sat up, looking satisfied.

                “Has anyone got a quill?” He asked. John shook his head.

                “I do, here.” Molly passed one over, and, turning the note over, Sherlock scribbled his response on the back. His handwriting was appalling, but John managed to decipher it as ‘ _Wife’s affair with his cousin irrelevant. Clearly passed by husband to the cousin- SH’._ He felt his ears burn slightly just thinking about all this intrigue.

                “You know,” he said, conversationally. “Most people’s letters home are about their teachers and classes and friends.”

                “Yes, and what kind of replies do they get?” Sherlock snorted. “All is well at home. Mother just took down the curtains to wash. Dull, dull, dull!” He gave his note back to the owl, who took it and flew off.

                “So instead, Mycroft sends you newspapers with cryptic clues.”

                “It’s the game, John.”

                “That game thing again. Why won’t you just tell me what it is?”

                Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was glaring at Agatha, who was enjoying a fuss from Molly. Molly, too, froze guiltily. Agatha looked defiant. Sherlock sighed and shoved the bacon at Molly.

                “Feed her, then.”

                 Molly smiled nervously and did so, cooing all the while, under Sherlock’s watchful eye. John took the paper and pretended to read it, trying to hide his smile. He hoped this was a sign Sherlock was moving towards accepting Molly as a friend too.

                The actual contents of the paper didn’t interest him and John’s mind fell back to what it had been going back to all week. He had been studying all new subjects, all glamorous and exciting, all radical and new. But, today, this afternoon, it was his very first flying lesson. He could feel the excitement in his stomach every time he thought about it. He couldn’t wait. He had woken up this morning, seen the weather was near perfect, and his anticipation had redoubled. His imagination kept running away with him. He imagined himself being a natural, swirling and tumbling through the air, always in perfect control, impressing everyone, going faster than anyone had before…

                “Are you Molly Hooper?” A voice said, with just a twinge of an Irish accent. It shook John out of his fantasies, and, embarrassed, he looked up too quickly. He recognised the boy as one of the Slytherin first years, they had a few classes together. Even if they hadn’t, he would have remembered him from the sorting. James Moriarty, who had so nearly matched Sherlock with sitting under the hat longest, who had also kept his eyes open.

                “You.” Sherlock said, a strange tone in his voice.

                “Me.” James agreed, and the two of them stared at each other.

                Molly was forgotten as the two of them stared and stared and the minutes ticked slowly past. After a few moments of silence, John cleared his throat, but went ignored. He shrugged uselessly at Molly, who looked as confused as him. Finally, after what must have been a good five minutes, the two of them launched into a quick-fire game of rock-paper-scissors. It was a tie, with both combatants choosing rock. Sherlock glowered. Jim smirked and sat down.

                “Um, so, you two know each other?” John asked.

                “Potions.” They said together.

                “Yeah, we got put on a bench together.” James elaborated. “And we’re getting on famously, aren’t we, Sherlock?”

                “If you say so.” Sherlock huffed.

                “Name’s James Moriarty. Call me Jim.” Jim continued cheerily.

                “John Watson.” John replied. “So, um, what was that just now?”

                “The game.” Moriarty grinned. “And rock, paper, scissors.”

                “The game?” John sensed a breakthrough. “Wait, you know what he’s on about?”

                “Observation and deduction.” Jim recited slowly, giving every syllable a sense of grandeur. “You look, you observe, you asses each observation and you work out the only solution that makes sense of all the facts.” He paused, pondering. “Or you use it to try and work out what they’re going to shoot in Rock-Paper-Scissors. We always tie. It drives Sherley here mad.”

                Jim seemed impervious to Sherlock’s murderous look, instead pausing to play with Agatha, flicking pieces of bacon rind down the table for her to chase. “What an adorable kitty.” He said, with a laugh in his voice. John wondered if everyone here was slightly off-centre.

                “Right.” John was unconvinced. “So that thing with the paper…”

                “I always play against Mycroft.” Sherlock took the paper back and turned back to page three. “It’s all there. The painting is of great monetary value, that’s true, but it’s a portrait. It isn’t just going to let itself be stolen, it would have called out. So it must have been someone he knew, someone he trusted, and someone who could convincingly have reason to move it.”

                “Alright…” John said, uncertainly. He thought Sherlock was probably right, but it was hard to keep reminding himself he was in a world where paintings could talk and move.

                “They have no children, no house elf would be allowed to move it, so, it must have been one of the two of them.” Jim was looking over at the picture now with interest, speaking as he worked it out, swigging from a glass of orange juice. “Oooh, but, look at her face.”

                “Well, she looks happy.” John ventured.

                “…She looks like she’s in love.” Molly added shyly, studying it too. Sherlock beamed at her, pleased she had drawn the same conclusion as he had. Molly would look rather pleased with herself for the rest of the day.

                “Yes, in love.” Sherlock agreed. “But she isn’t looking at her husband. Look, no matter how much she moves, she’s never looking at him. Who is she looking at?”

                “She’s looking at the man taking the photograph, her husband’s cousin.” Jim continued, pointing to the caption. “Looking at him with _love_.”

                “Clearly an affair.” Sherlock nodded.

                “But it doesn’t matter.” Jim was getting into the flow of it now. “It’s her family heirloom, she’s wearing three different lockets, she’s obviously a hoarder, why would she steal it?”

                “And look where the camera is focused; it’s definitely slanted towards the husband’s side.” Sherlock continued. “Meaning that the photographer was looking not at his lover, but at his cousin.”

                “A conspiratorial look, perhaps?” Jim’s eyes were on fire, enjoying this as much as Sherlock was.

                “Mm, they have a shared secret.” Sherlock nodded.

                “And assuming it isn’t that the husband knows about the affair, it can only be that they know the location of the painting.”

                “Which must mean they were in on it together.” Sherlock concluded, satisfied, folding the paper over and laying it down on the table.

                “Well… we’ll just have to see what happens.” John said, trying to be as neutral as possible. The fact was, hearing it all laid out like that, it was hard to imagine any other explanation now; but he couldn’t quite believe all that could be worked out just from one photograph and its caption.

                “You don’t believe me.” Sherlock wasn’t happy. “Alright, what about all that stuff with Arthur Weasley, on the train. Do you remember?”

                “Yeah, you said… let’s see, that he likes older girls and muggles, works hard but is a bit dumb, and has at least two brothers. I thought you were just making it up to insult him.”

                “Not older girls, John, one older girl. Didn’t you see his hair? An old fashioned style like that, he’s trying to look more mature.”

                “Oh! Everyone think he and Molly Prewett are going to get together!” Molly offered. “She’s in the same year as him, but I think she _is_ a bit older…”

                “Alright, fine, what about the muggle thing?” John asked.

                “Didn’t you see his face?”

                “Of course I do, every day nearly, but I don’t see-”

                “He still had traces of cream on his face when we were on the train. Not the normal stuff, that’s green. This was white. Muggle spot cream. He was experimenting.”

                John, at this point, was trying to keep his mouth from hanging open. “And the rest?”

                “He had study notes hanging out of his pocket. If he really cared about them, he would have kept a better eye on them, but if he didn’t care, why would he have them at all? Obviously he had been studying over the summer, if he did well academically he wouldn’t bother and if he wasn’t a hard worker he definitely wouldn’t bother. The two brothers was obvious from the way he looked out for us, the way he spoke to us, the way he let me insult him and didn’t bother to get into an argument. Trust me, the only people who can be that non-confrontational are the chronically shy, which he clearly wasn’t, or those too experienced with bickering at home.”

                “Amazing.” John blurted, almost involuntarily. “That’s really… yes. That’s incredible.”

                Sherlock seemed rather pleased. “Thank you. That’s not what most people say.”

                “What do most people say?”

                “I told him to piss off.” Jim said, casually looking spreading jam over a slice of toast before taking a big bite out of it. John couldn’t help but laugh. “Anyway, it was Molly I came over to see.”

                “Hi.” Molly said, looking slightly worried but making a valiant attempt at hiding it.

                 “Hi.” He smiled back, shuffling a little so he could be angled more towards her. “Listen, Molly, I heard about your dad.”

                “O-oh.” Molly looked down at Agatha, beginning to stroke her again, not making eye contact.

                “I just wanted to say… well, Northern Ireland, you know, that’s my neck of the woods, so I just wanted to say… I’m sorry. Everything that’s happening over there… it’s just awful.”

                “Oh…” Molly looked quite touched. “Thank you.”

                “I think when the muggles start tearing each other apart, that’s the time when wizards should get involved.” An ugly shadow passed over his face. “I mean, they can do what they like to each other, but have you seen what it’s doing to the land?! The whole country’s a mess! It’s disgusting. It’s an absolute joke and my dad says the Ministry won’t let us do anything about it! It’s our places getting wrecked too! We should be allowed to-” He stopped, visibly composing himself. “Sorry, it just makes me mad. Anyway, Molly, I’m sorry about your dad.”

                Uncomfortable listening to Molly’s stammering response, John looked away. As he did so, the large clock informed him of the time. He stood up quickly.

                “We’re late for class.” He said, far more calmly than he felt. Somehow, the entire hall had emptied out while they were talking without any of them noticing. Even so, as they hurried off down the halls, Jim heading in initially the same direction as them, John couldn’t help but smile. As he watched Jim and Molly’s backs hurrying along ahead of him, and Sherlock by his side, the little whispering voice in the back of his mind, his magical extra sense that he couldn’t quite explain, quietened down and stopped. It was content. They were complete.

                “So what about me?” John asked.

                “What about you?”

                “When we met, at your house. You asked if it was my mom or dad that had died.”

                “Oh. That.”

                “Yes, that. How did you know?”

                “Your jacket.”

                “What about it?”

                “You had a jacket with you. In the summer. Therefore you were used to warmer temperatures. Therefore you just moved here, where it’s colder and wetter, and people only do that for work or to be closer to family or deaths.”

                “So how did you know which?”

                “You got through all Mycroft’s repelling spells. Jobs and aging relatives don’t give people that kind of determination.”

                They entered Transfiguration five minutes late. Professor McGonagall was not impressed, although she did soften up slightly when Sherlock was the first in the class to successfully change his matchstick into a needle, sharp pointed and small-eyed, and not a trace of the wooden anywhere in the metal.

                Only John had seen the secret to Sherlock’s success. He didn’t think Molly or the Professor or anyone else had noticed that, growing frustrated, Sherlock had put his wand down on the table, taken the match between his fingers, and looked at it so severely that John almost thought Sherlock had bullied it into becoming a needle.

                “How did you do that, without a wand?” He whispered, once Professor McGonagall had finished examining the needle and moved on, charging Sherlock to change it back.

                “Anyone could do it.” Sherlock muttered back. “They say wandless magic is the hardest to learn, but it’s only because we forget. Everyone forgets they were doing wandless magic before they came here.”

                “But it’s involuntary, isn’t it?”

                “Mine isn’t.” Sherlock answered, covering the needle with his hand. When he took his hand away again, his matchstick was lying on the table, apparently unharmed. “I’m not going to forget, John.”

                McGonagall came to check on their progress and Sherlock snatched up his wand, looking for all the world as if he had changed the match to a needle and back again in the conventional way that the Professor had been teaching them.

 

 *

                Over the months and years to come, it would become obvious that Sherlock was a natural at Transfiguration and John was not. Sherlock continued to subtly use magic without a wand whenever he could; in other lessons the results varied from occasional success to utter failure, but in transfiguration, the wand seemed to make little difference. His magic always worked. Having a wand didn’t make much of a difference to John either. He had imagination, certainly, but to him a matchstick was a matchstick and, magic or not, should remain a matchstick. Jim, on hearing this theory, would say it was his tenacity and solidity. Sherlock would say it was stubbornness or stupidity. On that occasion, however, when Sherlock first demonstrated his skills, even the possibility of wandless magic wasn’t enough to distract John from the approaching flying lesson.  The morning seemed to drag on and on endlessly, until lunchtime. It turned out the lessons were going to be with the Slytherins, and Jim wandered over again to chat to John about it. To John’s dismay, it seemed a lot of the other children would, at the very least, have ridden on brooms routinely before, but, Jim assured him, there wouldn’t be many who had flown solo. Molly reassured John that she had never been on a broom before either, and, going quiet, seemed to eat even less than Sherlock, who spent most of the lunch hour with his face buried in a book, looking up only occasionally to give some food to Agatha or hide her under the table if a teacher was approaching. After they had eaten, they wandered over the grounds, circling round the lake. Occasionally Sherlock would stop, look at the mud, scribble something on his shirt cuff, and then move on. Molly asked what he was doing, and Sherlock told her how important it was to be able to recognise dirt from different areas. John tuned out his little lecture, retreating back into his flying fantasies. Now, however, they were tempered with an element of reality and the very real possibility that he would be the worst in the class and humiliate himself.

                When it came to it, however, John flattered himself that flying might be as natural to him as Transfiguration was to Sherlock, or nearly. They were stood in rows facing each other, the brooms by their sides, lying on the floor, and after an alarmingly short amount of basic instruction, were told it was time to try it themselves. John felt his stomach jolt, though he couldn’t decide if it was fear or excitement, but he smiled at his friends, Molly standing next to him, Jim opposite with the Slytherins. Jim grinned back, happy, but Molly looked a bit more unsure. John subtly put his hand out and gave hers a reassuring squeeze as the teacher finished his instructions. It seemed the first step was to calmly and clearly command the broom ‘up’, at which point, it would jump into their hands. John couldn’t quite see the point. The broom was right there. He could just as easily bend down and pick it up himself, but he didn’t dare argue. Maybe it was one of those wizard things.

                Perhaps the broom heard his thoughts, because when John called ‘up’, it gave a teasing little wobble and then stayed put. Opposite him, he heard the slight thwack of Jim’s flying up into his hand, but too hard, leaving the Slytherin laughing and shaking the pain out of his bruised fingers. Worried, John called his broom again more urgently, and this time it obediently came and settled into his grip. He looked around and saw, quite opposite to his fear that he was one of the last, he was actually one of the first. Gradually, however, more and more brooms made their way into their owner’s hands, until only Molly and one of the Slytherin girls remained, struggling. Molly was getting more and more flustered, blushing with embarrassment, and occasionally saying ‘Up, please’, as if she couldn’t bear being so rude as to just command the broom. It wasn’t even so much as twitching anymore. John realised Jim was giving him significant looks and, transferring his own broom to his other hand, John waited until the teacher was giving his attention to the Slytherins and then leant round Molly, muttering ‘Up’. The broom jumped up and Molly caught it, looking supremely grateful to not be the last. It was a little tough on the Slytherin girl perhaps, but, John thought, someone destined to be directly after Sherlock Holmes every time they had to perform in one of their shared classes deserved a few breaks.

                  It was time to stop thinking about Molly, though, and concentrate on the task at hand. He wiped his hands on his robes in case they were sweaty- they weren’t- and, sitting astride his broom, tried to remember the appropriate grip, running through the instructions they had been given for up and down. To begin with, they were just to get on, hover for a minute at head height, and then come back down. The whistle blew, and, cautiously, John tried to get the broom to go upwards. It did. He let himself go just a little higher than he should, and then held. The teacher complimented him on his control as others struggled to get off the ground or went too high or wobbled all over the place. John sat on his broom while the teacher sorted them out, swinging his legs, enjoying the feeling of space below them. So far this wasn’t that different to climbing trees.

                A minute or two after him, Jim managed to steady himself at John’s height, though he was frowning a bit with the effort. Once he was balanced, he grinned at John, exhilarated. Then he glanced at the teacher and, sure he was distracted, slowly and carefully leant to his left, executing a near perfect barrel roll, wobbling only slightly as he came to be upright again. His smile this time was daring.

                John looked at the teacher. He was still busy helping Molly, who had been watching Jim and clearly hadn’t heard a word he’d said, judging by her flustered refocusing now, as the teacher asked her a question. He probably had a few seconds of safety, if he had the guts.

                John flipped himself over. His stomach turned, but as he came back to the upright position, he had to fight the urge to laugh. That was, he realised, one of the most fun things he had ever done. They spent the rest of the lesson gradually climbing higher, going faster, learning to turn left and right, but none of it was as much fun as that simple, illicit stunt, and no view of the castle from above that he would build up over the years would ever be as precious to him as the blurred vision of the grass whizzing past somewhere a few feet above his head.

                When he returned to Gryffindor common room, worn out, arms and legs aching from the unaccustomed movements, he found for the first time Sherlock sitting on his bed waiting for him.

                “There you are.” He said. “How long does it take to get back from the grounds? I want to go back to the lake, Jenkins was telling me that if you brush some of the mud away by that big tree you can see the roots.”

                “Sherlock, how did you…? How did you get in here?!”

                “I played the game with Ouimansk, it wasn’t hard to work out the password.”

                “Right.” John rolled his eyes, going into his trunk for the change of socks he had come in for. “Well, I’m not going anywhere before I’ve had dinner. I’m starving.”

                It was at this moment that Sebastian walked in. He looked at them in confusion, noting Sherlock’s untidy but undoubtedly blue tie. John smiled apologetically.

                “He followed me home, can we keep him?”

                Sebastian turned away, but not before John saw the little amused smile that had crept onto his face. Pleased with this progress, John invited him to come down to dinner with them. The invitation was declined, to John’s dissatisfaction and Sherlock’s relief.

 

 *

                It was the final week in September before Sherlock received another letter from home that wasn’t just a newspaper with a little hint or question. It had been a month now since they had started school, but already it seemed like forever. Things had just settled into a nice little routine of their classes, friends, and their little corner of the Gryffindor table, Molly and Jim on one side, John and Sherlock on the other. The Holmes family owl didn’t even bother going over to the Ravenclaw table anymore, landing between Jim and Molly, where it sat eating Molly’s bacon rinds until Sherlock finally arrived. For once, the owl was carrying an actual parcel. John was intrigued. For his part, Jim wanted to open it, but Molly wouldn’t let them. Sherlock eventually came to join them and, keeping Agatha a safe distance from the owl, took the parcel, his lip curling in distaste.

                “What is it?” John asked, mystified.

                “A birthday present from my mother.” Sherlock sounded like such a thing was a death sentence. The parcel flopped slightly in his hands. “No doubt another awful shirt.”

                “It’s your birthday?!” Molly was, it seemed, appalled at this oversight on her part. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know! Happy birthday!”

                John and Jim echoed this sentiment, but Sherlock didn’t seem to care, instead opening the package with a world weary sigh. Inside was another small package wrapped in brown paper, a note, and the promised lurid shirt, which proved to be a revolting tie-dye affair of fluorescent greens and yellows, that swirled round, occasionally forming the words ‘it’s my birthday!’ in their coils. Jim couldn’t stop laughing, not heeding Molly’s attempts at ssh-ing him. John did his best to hold his giggles in, trying to disguise it as a cough when Molly glared at him. Sherlock had turned to the accompanying note, picking it up between his fingers as though it was contagious. It read as follows:

 

_Sherlock,_

_Happy birthday darling!!! I found this shirt in a catalogue, isn’t it fun?? The words will change every day, so you can look forward to some surprises!! And that might not be the only surprise you get today!! But I’m saying too much as usual!! I’m awfully busy as you can imagine, so I’ll stop here. Happy birthday!! Hugs and kisses and all mummy’s love to you!!_

_Mummy_

_Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

                Sherlock, understandably, was not impressed very much by this note either, screwing it up as tightly as possible. John found himself wondering what exactly Mrs Holmes was like, apart from having awful taste in shirts and a habit of using too much punctuation. Sherlock pushed the shirt aside derisively, rummaging underneath it for the smaller package. This, too, had a note tied to it:

 

_I’m so sorry, I tried to stop her. Happy birthday, brother. –M_

                Looking much happier at the prospect of Mycroft’s gift, Sherlock opened it to reveal a pair of scissors, with which he immediately set about the ‘humane destruction’ of the t-shirt. John couldn’t believe Sherlock was already twelve, his own birthday wasn’t until the end of May. Still, he comforted himself, he was at least slightly taller.

                “Sherlock, are you sure you should?” Molly asked, anxiously twisting her hands. “I mean, it was a gift, your mother chose that carefully, to show she loves you… and what if she asks you about it?”

                “She won’t. Look at it, Molly. I’m doing the world a favour.” Sherlock reassured her, continuing to methodically snip the shirt into strips. John couldn’t help but agree with him.

                “But…”

                “You should have been in Hufflepuff.” He shook his head in exasperation.

                “No I shouldn’t! It just seems such a waste…”

                “We could use it as a collar for Agatha.” Jim suggested, trying to control his laughter. He coaxed the ferret over to him and tied one of the strips round her neck in a bow. The words ‘Happy birthday!!!’  flowed lazily round the loops and disappeared as Sherlock took out his wand and began to systematically burn the scraps.

                “Sherlock Holmes!” It was Professor McGonagall who came storming down the aisle looking furious.  “What on earth do you think you are doing?”

                Sherlock stared at her, as if baffled as to why she could think he was doing anything wrong. It was Jim who answered.

                “It’s an act of compassion, Professor, really.”

                “Quiet, Moriarty, or I’ll have you in detention too. Holmes, you will go to Professor Mylas’ office as soon as morning classes are over. You’re Ravenclaw house, I don’t see why I should have to deal with you.”

                “Professor.” Sherlock grunted, reluctantly. John sometimes thought Sherlock spent more time in the Ravenclaw head’s office than anywhere else in the castle.

                “If you cause any more trouble at this table, I won’t allow you to sit here.” She said, seeming to sense that this would be the more effective punishment. “Either of you. I’m all for inter-house unity, but really.”

                “If Molly was a Hufflepuff, we’d have a full set.” Sherlock said, looking at Molly as if it was somehow her fault all this was happening.

                “I really couldn’t care less about your collection, Mr Holmes.” McGonagall sniffed. “But if you’re going to set fires, kindly do it at your own table. As for you, Mr Watson, Miss Hooper, I advise you to keep a close eye on what your friends here are doing.” She flicked her wand over her shoulder, and John flinched to see as the gems representing house points disappear out of each of the house’s tubes- five from Slytherin, ten from Gryffindor, and fifteen from Ravenclaw. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. He and Jim had already explained to John that they were ‘experimenting’ to see if they could make it so Hufflepuff would win the House Cup at the end of the year for the first time in over a decade. John worried slightly about what this ambition meant for him, Molly, and for Gryffindor. As they looked over at that side of the hall however, they were distracted by the entrance of Dumbledore, walking sedately next to a man John didn’t recognise. He was middle aged and looked very severe; reminding John a great deal of the headmaster of the grammar school he had seen when he had gone to take his 11+. The man carried himself very straight and upright, nodding at whatever Dumbledore was saying, but not looking interested. In John’s opinion, he didn’t look well, grey skin under his short grey hair. Sherlock was looking at him quizzically, head tilted to one side.

                “I wonder.” He muttered to himself.

                “The headmaster has a guest, I don’t think we need any of your wonderings, Mr Holmes.” Professor McGonagall said curtly, and went over to greet the man. John thought she seemed surprised as they were introduced, glancing back at them. A moment later, the great mystery was revealed when Dumbledore stood at the front and said “I see some of you are looking on in curiosity at our esteemed guest. We are lucky enough to be enjoying a rare visit from the Minister for International Magical Co-operation, Mr Thaddeus Holmes.”

                John and Molly both stared at Sherlock in surprise. Jim looked smug, as if he had already worked it out, but John didn’t believe that for a second. Sherlock kept his face completely neutral.

                “Now, let’s see…” Dumbledore peered out. “Ah, yes, I see Sherlock is taking his breakfast with the Gryffindors again this morning. Well, when you’ve both quite finished, the anteroom on the side here is quite at your disposal.” He sat down again, engaging Sherlock’s father in conversation as the two men began to eat.

                “Hmm. I thought it was him.” Sherlock said, calmly, penning a return message to Mycroft (“ _Even worse than usual. Never leave her unattended while shopping.-SH”)_ and giving it to the owl, which flew away as soon as it could.

                “You didn’t recognise him?” John asked, feeling awkward. He had often wondered about Sherlock’s family. Now he wasn’t altogether sure he wanted to know.

                “No, I’ve only met him twice.” Sherlock shrugged. “He works abroad. Mother gets the occasional letter, but he hasn’t been home to visit since I was seven. I wonder what he’s doing here.”

                “Perhaps he came to see you.” Molly suggested, tentatively. “For your birthday.”

                Sherlock snorted. Seeing that his father had already risen from the staff table and was working his way into the side room, Sherlock stood, took a final mouthful of juice, and, leaning forward said to John “I’ll see you in class.”

                “Alright, but-”

                “It won’t take long.” He answered flatly, and left.

               

 

 


	3. Chapter Two Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First year continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up in this chapter, the kids go on an adventure and some nice Christmas scenes :) If you think they’re out of season now, imagine me, in the middle of July, during the one hot week we had in this country, holed up inside, headphones on, with ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ on repeat. Now that’s out of season. 
> 
> Also, I have way too many feels for the brother relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft. So expect plenty of that as the story goes on :P

Chapter 2- Part 2/2

 

                 Sherlock didn’t turn up to their lesson. In fact, it was half way through the lunch hour before they saw him again, after Mr Holmes had finished his meal and left the school. They had started to wonder if Sherlock would turn up at all, when he suddenly appeared and swung himself into his usual seat.

                “Any beef? I’m starving.” This unusual statement was followed by him piling his plate, an equally unusual sight. John was always reminded irresistibly of a snake, that gorged itself on one day and then didn’t need to eat for several more. He pushed the image aside and got back to the subject at hand.

                “Are you alright? We were starting to think you weren’t coming.”

                “Professor Melas just went on and on.” Sherlock scowled. “You’d think I’d set fire to the castle, not a few bits of T-shirt.”

                “What did he do?” Jim asked.

                “Added another week onto my detentions.” Sherlock shrugged. “I think I’m booked in till Christmas now.”

                “Ooh, how scary.” Jim rolled his eyes. “Still, he’s stricter than old Sluggy. Last time I got sent to him, he just told me boys would be boys, asked after my dad and sent me off again.”

                “He keeps asking me about mine, too.” Sherlock frowned. “As if I care.”

                “How was your dad, Sherlock?” Molly asked, darting worried looks at him and then looking away again before he noticed. Sherlock shrugged.

                “Fine.”

                “Is that it?” John asked.

                “Yes.”

                John sighed but decided not to pry, even though he was pretty sure Sherlock was upset. John couldn’t blame him; he had never gone more than a few weeks without seeing his dad, he couldn’t imagine going years. Then he realised that it would be a reality for him now. Before he knew it, it would have been years since he had seen his father too. He felt a little twinge of grief and concentrated hard on his food, hoping to hide it, sensing that on the other side of the table Molly was occupied with similar thoughts. Jim, however, had no such sensitivity.

                “Shall we play the game on you, Sherlock?” He asked, quietly. “Let’s see.”

                “Jim.” John said, warningly. He was ignored.

                “You said yourself he wasn’t an attentive father. Never home, never wrote, you didn’t even recognise him. So you weren’t close. Why was that, I wonder? And what did he say to you? Well, I bet I can tell. Because he was a Slytherin, like Mycroft, like all the Holmes’. Ambitious. Ambitious for his sons, as well. Wants his family name honoured and upheld. You broke the Slytherin trend. I bet he hates that you’re in Ravenclaw, doesn’t he, Sherlock? I bet he hit you. And all the trouble you’re getting into, what does he think of that? I bet he hates it. No career in the Ministry, not for you, with all that ‘involuntary’ magic you got up to before you came here. Not like Mycroft. Prefect, head boy, Slytherin… and then there’s you. It’s quite a large age gap between you and your brother, isn’t it, Sherlock? Correct me if I’m wrong, you know, but I wonder if your father was away quite as much before you were born. I wonder if your mother ever got lonely. Or did he only start going away after you were born? Were you planned, Sherlock? After they already had Mycroft? Or were you just a little accident, an embarrassing little mistake? The unwanted child that drove-”

                “Stop it!” Molly jumped up, upset. “Jim, stop it! How can you say things like that?!”

                “I have to. He won’t tell us himself.” Jim shrugged. “A problem shared is a problem halved after all.” He smirked at Sherlock. It was not returned. “Don’t be mad, I’m just… playing the game.” He was looking unblinkingly at Sherlock, some unspoken challenge between them.

                “You can’t call it a game! It’s just, it’s just horrible!” Molly was getting more and more upset.

                “He does it.” Jim said, lazily. “Anyway, it’s all true.”

                “Yes, I know he does it, and that’s horrible too! The first time John introduced me to Sherlock, he told me the boys I liked never fancied me back, probably because of my nose, and that my parents were squibs and they were so proud of me that I was terrified I would be too! That was all true too, but it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt my feelings! So I think both of you should spend less time showing off and being clever and spend more time actually getting to know people and making friends!”

                There was deadly silence. John completely agreed with her and tried to smile encouragingly, but the atmosphere was oppressive. After all that Jim had said to Sherlock, and all that Molly had said to both of them, John wondered if this wasn’t the end of their new-born friendships, or at the very least, the beginning of a big argument. Molly slowly sat back down again.

                “I’m sorry.” She said, looking close to tears. “But that’s just what I think.”

                There was silence again. No-one seemed to know what to say. Then Jim sighed, loud and long.

                “You really should have been in Hufflepuff.” He said, rolling his eyes. John looked at him in alarm, hoping he hadn’t offended her, and accidentally caught Sherlock’s eye. Somehow it set both of them laughing, and after a second Molly reluctantly giggled too, not quite sure how the atmosphere had gone from serious to absurd in a few seconds. That was one of Jim’s talents, John thought, he could diffuse tension as easily as he caused it.

                “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Sherlock.” He said, not entirely seriously.

                “What feelings?” Sherlock replied blankly, and somehow, everything was alright again. John wondered how close to the truth Jim’s observations and deductions had been. There hadn’t seemed to be much evidence of any of them being correct, except for the strange expression on Sherlock’s face as he said them. John didn’t dare ask then, and never would. Jim’s comments had released one elephant out of the room, he thought, and allowed an entire herd to come in.

 

*

 

                Packing to go home for Christmas, John couldn’t decide if the time had passed quickly or slowly. On the one hand, every day had seemed to fly past, everything whizzing past in a blur; but on the other, it was hard now to imagine how his life could be different. Whether it was the four of them on their corner of the Gryffindor table, Sherlock somehow getting into the common room, the lessons they shared, the evenings apart where Sherlock or Jim or usually both were in detention, all these things seemed like facts of life. He couldn’t imagine anything being different. As he crawled under Sebastian’s bed, looking for an errant glove he wanted to take home with him, he heard a familiar scurrying that announced Agatha’s arrival. In spite of their best efforts to re-enchant the cloth to say something rude or at least less insipid, the ribbon still gave out cheery slogans using all the latest slang. Throughout December they had all been on a Christmas theme, which had yesterday been announced to be ‘Radical!’ and today, as he crawled out from under the bed and scratched the ferret between the ears wished he would have ‘a very groovy CHRISTMAS!’. After this, it advised him to go away, but far less politely. Clearly one of Jim’s attempts had at least partly worked.

                A moment later, Sherlock arrived. John wasn’t sure how he kept working out all the passwords, but had given up on asking, just accepting it as fact. According to Jim, he also made an appearance in the Slytherin common room from time to time, and from passing conversations, they knew he had visited the Hufflepuffs too at least once. It sometimes seemed the only common room he wasn’t interested in was his own, but Nearly Headless Nick had once, huffing about Sherlock’s constant presence, informed John that the Grey Lady had told him that Sherlock simply couldn’t get into the Ravenclaw common room. John was surprised at first to hear that Sherlock couldn’t solve the riddles that gave entry, but then Nick explained that the answer was always something they should have learnt in class. Given that Sherlock had yet to submit a single piece of homework for any subject, John suddenly found his surprise lessened. Sherlock was undoubtedly a genius, but only in the areas that interested him. John had never told anyone Sherlock’s secret, but sometimes he laughed privately to himself.  He might reveal it to Jim and Molly one day, but he was waiting for a time when Sherlock was at his most insufferably arrogant- and he had yet to discover any limit at all to his friend’s ego.

                “Ready to go?” He asked, stooping again to look under his own bed for the missing glove. He wasn’t taking much home, but he needed his gloves and scarf at least or he was going to freeze.

                “I don’t know why anyone would be in such a hurry to go home.” Sherlock said, pulling John’s glove from his pocket. “I borrowed this.” He added.

                “What for?”

                “I wondered if I left it out where Agatha could see it, and then used a spell of my own making, something like _Misceo-_ ”

“Actually, Sherlock, I don’t want to know.” John decided not to examine the glove too closely, even though it appeared to have changed colour slightly and now smelt rather odd, shoving it into his pocket. “Anyway, we can still see each other in the holidays. It’s not like we’re far away.”

                “But Mycroft is still there. I’ll have to see him every day and he’ll lecture me about my studies.” Sherlock flopped down dramatically on the bed as if this was the worst fate that could befall anyone.

                “You’d miss him if he wasn’t there.” John tried. Sherlock snorted. “Anyway. It’s Christmas. It’ll be fun.”

                “We don’t really do Christmas.” Sherlock answered, though his tone suggested that he thought this was no great loss, and that Christmas was anything but ‘fun’. “Mother always goes to the Alps to ski. My father is actually home this year, but he’s off for his health, so I get notes like this off my dear brother.”

                He thrust a short letter at John, who took it with no little curiosity. He had seen the note arrive that morning, and noticed Sherlock’s apparent fury at it, but his friend hadn’t said anything and so John hadn’t thought he would get to see it. The letter was essentially a warning, a threat:

_Father is to have Christmas off in order to rest and improve his health. He will be at home for the whole of your holiday. Therefore, you will be on your VERY BEST behaviour: You will be QUIET in the house. Violin practise and potion experiments will ONLY take place in the shed on the far side of the grounds. Any explosions you wish to make there must occur DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS. Insults must be so veiled as to be NEAR-INCOMPREHENSIBLE. Father is NOT to be made a test subject for your home-made medicines or cures._ _Any questions on the subject of your academic progress must for the moment be answered with LIES. You will NOT, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, attempt to play ‘the game’ on our father. –M_

                John looked at the bizarre missive and wondered just how low Mycroft’s expectations were if Sherlock’s ‘very best behaviour’ was limited to only blowing things up during daylight hours. “Yes, I can see how this might be difficult for you.” He quipped, handing it back.

                “It’s going to be dull as dull.” Sherlock answered, frustrated. “He’s not letting me do _anything_!”

                “You can explode things and insult people as much as you like, you just have to be careful.” John sighed. “I’m sure he just wants your dad to get better.”

                Sherlock snorted. “He just doesn’t want me to get beaten again. Like I’m afraid of that guy.”

                “What? Sherlock…”

                “My father is something of a believer in military discipline. Wasn’t yours?”

                “No! Well, yes, but not like that-” John, confused, wasn’t sure what to say. Perhaps Sherlock’s father had, like John’s own, just occasionally used the slipper or belt as a disciplinary tool; but somehow John couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it than that. But how could he ask? He felt like if he condemned Sherlock’s father he would somehow be implicating his own. Still flustered, he was saved from working out what to say by Molly knocking on the door frame and coming in.

                “Hi boys. Sherlock, I thought you might be here.” She said happily. “Um, so, since we’re leaving soon, I just wanted to give you these!” From behind her back, she produced two brightly wrapped parcels. “Happy Christmas!”

                “Oh…” John said, awkwardly. “Thanks, Molly. I’m sorry, I didn’t get you anything yet.”

                “Oh, that’s alright, you don’t have to! I got you all the same thing anyway, it’s just some chocolate…”

                “I didn’t get you anything either.” Sherlock put in. “…sorry.”

                “I don’t mind! I just wanted to… get you boys a present.” Molly shrugged. “It’s just… it’s so nice to have friends.”

                John and Sherlock exchanged a look. “Hufflepuff.” They said together. Molly threw her hands up in defeat.

                “I’m going to find Jim!” She announced, and left.

 

*

 

 

                John had been a little worried about going home. He had tried, with reasonable success, to put it at the back of his mind and not think too much about it; but he was worried about he was going to find his mom when he got back. He had got her letters of course, in which she had always been unerringly chirpy, and he knew she had got herself a job being the secretary for the Primary school he’d briefly attended, but there was no way of telling if her happy front was genuine or not. Sometimes at night, if he’d had a particularly good day, he’d look at the picture of his dad and wonder if she was doing the same thing, if she was alright, if she was lonely. Then, feeling guilty, he would bury himself under the covers, thinking about the letter he would write to her next day, until he felt better. He was worried he’d find her somehow depleted or changed. He didn’t know how he would leave her again after the holidays if she was.

                He needn’t have worried. Mrs Watson, like her late husband and her son, was made of stronger stuff. She was all full of smiles and hugs, chatting away, telling him all sorts of things. She told him his dad would be proud of him, and her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away and smiled again. John hugged her tightly and they went home together.

                It was hard not to miss his father as they put up the Christmas decorations, and they talked about him as they went, telling stories of old memories of Christmas in the barracks. His mother told him about the cards they had received from old army friends, showing them hanging on a string pinned across the wall. As John inspected them, he was greatly surprised to find one that read in a familiar hand ‘ _Merry Christmas, Mrs Watson- Mycroft Holmes’._ Taking it down, he went to ask his mother about it, and she told him she had been seeing Mycroft relatively regularly, that he popped in for a cup of tea to check on her and hear news of the boys, as apparently Sherlock was not a great letter writer. John wasn’t quite sure how he felt about this, trying to picture the somewhat snobbish, prissy and definitely magical Mycroft in his front room. He failed, but felt somewhat grateful his mother had at least one friend here. He began to suspect Sherlock might have asked Mycroft to do so, recalling a time soon after they had started where Sherlock had been looking at the picture of his dad, trying to make it move, while John had been writing to his mother. Sherlock had left with a funny look on his face and had the next day received a note saying ‘ _Very well.- M’._ John smiled. For all his pretences to the contrary, Sherlock was capable of doing good things sometimes. He would spend another day or two with his mother, and then he would go up to visit the strange house on the hill.

                Yet Mycroft, it seemed, wasn’t the only reason he needn’t have worried. In John’s opinion, his mother chose the worst possible place to tell him about the other reason, in the middle of a busy shopping centre. With less than a week until Christmas, the place was completely packed. It was brand-new, they had only finished building it in October. According to his mother, they had had the Christmas decorations up as soon as the ‘Grand Opening!’ banners had come down. John didn’t like it. After the stone walls, natural drafts and soft candle light of the castle, the place seemed overcrowded, the colours garish, the walls too dark, the lights bright and artificial. He was starting to get a headache, but he wasn’t going to complain, particularly as the express purpose of this trip was to find Christmas presents for his friends. They had already risked probable death getting Molly a present, which was a poster of _The Beatles_. John didn’t even know if she liked _The Beatles_ , but his mom had given him a knowing look and assured him she would. The store was nearly sold out, too, anything with the band’s name on flying off the shelves. Still, it had given John a chance, while his mother was arguing with a harassed looking woman about whether her handbag had bent a corner of ‘ _The Beatles Annual, 1964’_ to slip an LP of re-recorded Frank Sinatra tracks underneath the poster for his mother’s Christmas present and sneak over to the till, where he found himself in a queue behind other people also clutching things emblazoned with _The Beatles_. John wondered if this was really a record store or if he had just missed something big while he had been at school.

                In spite of this trauma, it turned out that Molly was the easy one to buy for. John had been planning on just taking the chocolate route, but his mother had worried about whether they would be alright with ‘normal sweets’ given what they were used to, and was insisting on tramping round the centre looking for other alternatives. She kept asking what they liked. John wasn’t sure ‘making trouble’ was the sort of answer she was looking for. Eventually, John said it probably didn’t matter, that they probably didn’t care, especially as Sherlock’s family didn’t really do Christmas.

                Mrs Watson asked if they had a religious reason not to celebrate Christmas. John said no, to the best of his knowledge, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were Jehovah’s Witnesses, Sikhs, Buddists Hindus, or Muslims. Then she asked, looking horrified, if wizards didn’t celebrate Christmas. John assured them they did, telling her all about the Christmas decorations that had been put up at the school the week before they left, but that Sherlock’s family didn’t. As far as he knew, it was just because they weren’t a close family; and he explained about their mother being away and their father usually being abroad, but at the moment ill at home. John’s mother therefore decided the only solution was for Sherlock and Mycroft at least to join themfor Christmas, muttering something about mothers that would leave their sons alone on Christmas day. John promised to invite them, not sure how Sherlock would react, but looking forward to it himself. He knew they would come. You couldn’t say no to his mom. Or so he had always thought. What his mom told him next, he could definitely say no to.

                “John.” She said, quietly as they stopped outside a shoe shop for a rest. “I might have met someone.”

                “Met who?”

                “I mean, met a man, John.”

                “What?” The lights in the centre were too bright, he couldn’t think.

                “His name is Dean. He’s a handyman at the school, I doubt you remember him. He’s very kind. He gave me a lift one day when it was raining and… he loves his football. Chelsea all the way, just like you.”

                “And dad.” John said, abruptly. “They were dad’s team too.”

                “I know.” His mom said, and paused, looking intently ahead at the display of high heels in the window. “He asked me out for coffee. I told him no. I said it was still too soon after Harry- after your dad.”

                In spite of this, John wasn’t reassured. “What did he say?” He demanded.

                “He said… he’d wait.”

                John said nothing.

                “John… no-one will replace your dad, you know, and I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want me to. But, not now, but maybe one day, I might want to get into another relationship.”

                John shook his head, turned around and walked away. He was glad when his mother didn’t follow. He walked straight out of the shopping centre, back into the town, and up the hill to the strange old house. He barely noticed the repelling charms as he shinned up the tree again, recklessly leapt the distance between his tree and the one Sherlock had been in, clambered down, and went to find the shed; using the wisps of coloured smoke coming from somewhere in the grounds as a pointer.

 

*

 

 

                In the end, Sherlock and Mycroft were prevailed upon to at least come for Christmas dinner, which his mother spent a good deal of Christmas Eve starting to prepare. John sat in the kitchen watching until she gave him the carrots to chop up. Neither of them mentioned ‘Dean’ again. It was a strange atmosphere. Neither of them really knew what to do, used to being surrounded by the other army families in the shared accommodations, the parties, the huge dinner everyone ate together, everyone sharing in the fun and the responsibilities. It seemed strange, with just the two of them. John found he missed his father more than ever. He had been the sort of person who would have made it feel comfortable, normal. Still, they tried, and with the snow outside, all seemed peaceful at the very least. He tried to hug his mother more tightly than usual before bed on Christmas Eve, hoping that the awful conversation was now behind them and they could go back to normal. From the way she squeezed his shoulders, he could tell she felt the same.

                As it normally does, Christmas morning followed, and John was not yet so mature that he didn’t wake up with a feeling of excitement. He went to the window and, pulling the curtains open, was pleased to see the snow was still falling outside, lightly drifting. He could just see Sherlock’s house brooding on the hill and grinned, sure that whatever happened, today’s Christmas meal would not be a usual one. He wondered if wizards had different traditions, and what Sherlock would make of theirs. He would probably be rude. This he had already braced his mother for, trying to explain that- so far as John could tell, at least- he really didn’t know any better. Finally, he went downstairs.

                His mother was in the kitchen, with Bing Crosby blaring out of the radio and some tinsel wrapped into her hair. She wished him happy Christmas and, kissing his cheek, forced him to go back upstairs and get changed. All through her childhood she had gone to Church on Christmas morning, and there had always been a service at the barracks, so they weren’t, she told him sternly, going to break the habit of a lifetime. John did as he was told, and after  breakfast, she told him it was time to go.

                “Presents first?” John smiled winningly.

                “Alright, one.” His mother rolled her eyes, and John went over to the tree. There were several parcels waiting for him, but, in the end, his manners got the better of him and he was suddenly aware that the only present his mother had this year was the one from him; so he took it out and brought it over to her.

                “Happy Christmas, Mom.” He said, suddenly feeling somehow shy.  His mother smiled at him, thanking him, and opened it. She was delighted with the record, vowing to put it on as soon as they got home. She kissed his forehead and told them they had to go. John fetched his coat and his school scarf and they went off together. The snow had stopped, and John could see the footprints they made all the way down the lane. Other people were walking too, and said good morning and Merry Christmas, just like in the barracks. John found, almost to his surprise, that he was enjoying himself. He decided not to fight it and enjoy this Christmas as it was, stepping deliberately, hoping that after the service he would be able to follow his own tracks home.

 

 

                As it was, they weren’t home long before Mycroft and Sherlock arrived. His mother had got the dinner started, and then come into the lounge for John to open the packages under the tree for him. For the first time, he felt slightly self conscious, used to having one or two at most, surrounded by other children and adults all opening things too. Here were six for him, with just his mom watching, and having nothing more to open herself. Even with Frank singing from the record player, John felt a little uncomfortable. Maybe he was just getting a little old for this. On the other hand, his presents were well-chosen. There was, of course, the silly knitted jumper his Grandmother made every year, even when his mother had tried to impress on her that warm jumpers were not really a necessity in Hong Kong. They were also always inevitably too big, John having only communicated with his grandmother by letter since he was born and her over-estimating how much a boy could have grown in a year. Still, he opened it first and pulled it on, just as he always did, glad here of the warmth. The snow outside fascinated him; he had only seen it once before, when he was eight and in England for half a term between October and December. He hoped when Sherlock arrived they would spend some time outside. He turned to the gifts from his mother, and on finding an interesting-sounding novel, a new football, an at-home science experiment kit and the _Beano_ annual for the coming year, felt they more than made up for the dull-looking science and maths text books she had wrapped up together in the last package. It seemed she intended to make him keep his promise of keeping up his studies in normal subjects too.

                John was just politely looking over the dry school books when the doorbell rang. Mycroft entered first, followed by Sherlock, both of them with their school scarves under their coats, flashes of green and blue. John was glad when, without apparent prompting (although, he suspected, instruction before the bell was rung) Sherlock thanked his mother very politely. He then came in to find John, immediately launching into a long story about what results his potions experiment that had been producing the coloured smoke a few days before had yielded. John largely tuned it out, trying to listen in to the small talk Mycroft and his mother were making in the hall; but it seemed largely to concern the weather and the state of the roads, confirming his view that, although only eighteen on the outside, Mycroft was secretly a middle aged man.

                Finally, they all came together in the lounge and John was happy to see that the Holmes’ had brought along a gift for his mother.  However, as she went to unwrap it, he felt a sudden terror that this was going to be some magical object that his mother wouldn’t understand or, worse, would do some damage to them or their household. When he saw Sherlock grinning at him, clearly, from the look of the mischief in his eyes, reading John’s thoughts again, John very nearly told her not to open it. In reality, it turned out to be nothing more than a common-place windchime. Or so it appeared. As his mother lifted it to admire it, John realised the decorative glass bird holding the wire for the chimes was filled with what seemed to be actual snowflakes, falling and disappearing, closing up and opening out like flower buds. What was more, the chimes, which he had taken to be crystal too, gave out bird song when they knocked together.

                In fairness to his mother, she recovered well, taking this in her stride and insisting on giving both Holmes boys a kiss on the cheek as a thank you. Mycroft accepted this with his usual good grace and elegance, but Sherlock, who hadn’t seen it coming, seemed positively alarmed and then baffled by such behaviour. John couldn’t help but laugh at his face, making it up to him by pushing over his present. Eventually, after the incident in the shopping centre, they had just settled on chocolate after all. Sherlock, for his part, seemed delighted with his Smarties tubes and would have resumed his experiments from September had John’s mother not then declared dinner was ready.

                Sherlock seemed considerably cheered by this point, his awkwardness of earlier gone, and he ate everything he was given, in spite of John knowing his mother not to be the best cook. In the barracks, she had only ever been responsible for the roast potatoes and parsnips. These were, as always, beautiful. It was just a pity the soup was out of a tin and rather too salty, the turkey and sprouts were both overcooked, the turkey dry and the sprouts turned to mush, and the pigs in blankets looking as if they had died in their sleep while on fire. Mycroft barely touched the soup and John could see him picking at his main course in distaste, but Sherlock at least cleared his plate. John couldn’t help picturing him starving himself for days before hand, like a snake, to ready himself for this one meal. Thankfully, the trifle was from a mix that even his mother couldn’t get wrong, the Christmas pudding was a triumph and her best filtered coffee even got a compliment from Mycroft. The food aside, the meal was a success. His mother spoke a lot to Sherlock, often looking confused by his answers but never hostile, trying to get to know John’s friend; and, to everyone’s surprise, Mycroft, in his precise and methodical way, could tell quite funny stories as long as he had Sherlock there to tell him to get on with it in the boring parts. Both of the wizard-born boys had been fascinated by the Christmas crackers, not sure how they were going to work without magic. When told they had a tiny amount of gun powder in them, Mycroft had looked positively alarmed and Sherlock delighted. John had to explain Sherlock’s joke to him several times before giving up- apparently ‘Why did the ghost cross the road?’ ‘To get to THE OTHER SIDE!’ just didn’t make sense when you knew actual ghosts. Sherlock was more amused by the novelty, unable to work out the purpose of including a small plastic comb. John noticed it went in his pocket, however, along with Mycroft’s mini-screwdriver set, when the older boy was distracted explaining in his rather pompous way to Mrs Watson how quaint muggle crackers were compared to the wizard variety, which could have all manner of things inside them. He made this entire speech quite seriously, a paper hat from the cracker placed quite regally on his head. John wanted to laugh every time he saw it. Sherlock had not put his hat on. No matter what John said, he refused. Then Mrs Watson told him to, and Sherlock did. Whether it was out of concern for John or not, you just didn’t say no to Mrs Watson.

                By the time lunch was cleared away, it was time to watch the Queen’s speech, not that any of them really listened. Mycroft was fascinated by the idea of having a monarch and began interrogating John’s mother about the muggle system of government. Sherlock, however, quickly lost interest and began looking through John’s textbooks, taking some time over the chemistry pages and, borrowing a pen, making some notes onto the cuff of his sleeve until Mrs Watson noticed and found him some paper. She would, John realised, now forever approve of Sherlock as a friend, as he was obviously so studious and hard working. He seemed more bewildered in the chapter on physics and asked John what gravity was. John tried to explain, but Sherlock kept asking difficult and odd questions mostly comprised of ‘why’ and ‘how’, until in the end John promised to dig out his old science books from his patchy schooling in the family barracks and lend them to him. Sherlock seemed delighted. John wondered if he wasn’t creating something dangerous.

                After the national anthem played, the coverage changed to show how the soldiers abroad for the Far East Command and in Northern Ireland were spending the holidays and John made the rather uncomfortable realisation that his mother was starting to well up. She didn’t seem to remember any of them were in the room. John looked away from the pictures on screen and focused very pointedly at the tree, elbowing Sherlock until he stopped staring. Mycroft got to his feet.

                “Why don’t we take a turn in the garden, boys?” He asked. “I find a short walk eases the digestion.”

                “We might need it, after those chipolatas.” Sherlock commented, but as it was the first insult he’d let slip out all day and his mother didn’t seem to have heard, John decided to let it slide. The three of them went out into the garden and wandered around a little until eventually, stooping down, John rolled a snowball in his fingers and tossed it at Sherlock.

                Sherlock was not impressed.  They stood awkwardly.

                “I believe the idea, Sherlock,” Mycroft said mildly, taking out his wand and melting the snow off the garden chairs before settling himself into one. “Is to throw one back.”

                “Why? What’s the point?”

                John decided that while Sherlock was distracted, turning around to talk to Mycroft, it would be a good time to nail him in the back of the head. He did so. Sherlock was still not impressed, but finally joined in. It turned out that in spite of his complete lack of interest in sport, Sherlock was fast and quite athletic, better at dodging John’s shots then making his own, although he was crafty and got some in when John least expected it. Mycroft had to separate them twice, once when Sherlock dumped a load of snow down John’s back and so John grabbed his hair and they fell to the ground wrestling until the older boy pulled them apart, and finally put a stop to the game when Sherlock’s snowballs were multiplying themselves in mid-air and pelting John with the frequency of a machine gun, sending him falling to the ground, breathless with laughter. Mycroft was less amused, telling Sherlock that these ‘uncontrollable’ acts of magic were very suspicious and that if Sherlock didn’t make more of an effort to ‘control’ them Mycroft might find the ‘uncontrollable’ urge to lock him in one room and Agatha the ferret in another. Sherlock sulked and explained how Mycroft had refused to let him bring Agatha along as it was apparently bad manners. Mycroft merely smiled.

                The game over, they went back inside where Mrs Watson was waiting with some fresh hot cocoa and a light scolding for getting so wet. Putting their wet things on the radiator, the jumpers from previous years emerged from the wardrobe and, finding the one from when he was nine was now the right size, John slipped it on and, finding one in Ravenclaw blue from the previous year, handed it over to Sherlock. Sherlock seemed reasonably happy in it, rolling the sleeves up until his hands came out, the ink writing still on his cuff. John suddenly realised Sherlock had never given the ballpoint pen back, and wondered just how many muggle curiosities his friend would be carrying home in his pockets. He decided to let it go. It was Christmas, after all.

                “Now then, I completely forgot earlier.” Mrs Watson said, when the boys emerged, warm and dry. “Sherlock, Mycroft, I have some presents for you here.”

                “You didn’t need to do that, Mrs Watson.” Mycroft said, looking almost as surprised as Sherlock, but she waved his comments away.

                “I couldn’t have you here at Christmas with nothing to open.” She shook her head and took the two presents out of the sideboard. “Don’t worry, they weren’t expensive.”

                “After you.” Sherlock muttered, still examining his present, presumably trying to work out what it was before he opened it. Mycroft, muttering his thanks, opened his to find two new carefully pressed and folded handkerchiefs, one deep green and one white. John had seen his mother ironing them the previous week, but had paid little attention; never considering that they might be for a gift. Personally, he would have them to be a boring but functional gift, much like getting a pair of socks or shoes, but Mycroft seemed genuinely moved, though he said little. It occurred to John then that this may have been the only gift Mycroft had received that year and was glad his mother had thought of it.

                Sherlock had obviously correctly guessed what his gift was, because when he opened his gift to reveal a notebook and pen set, he looked rather smug.  He was, once again, fascinated by it; even Mycroft extolled the good thinking behind having pre-lined and pre-cut paper. Sherlock was asking how the ballpoint pen worked, ready to take it apart to find out, when Mrs Watson leaned forward and ruffled his hair, as she did sometimes with John, and said “Perhaps this will encourage you to write home a little more often, hmm?”

                Sherlock looked mortified. Mrs Watson decided the time had come for supper, and went out to fetch some cheese and crackers and other bits and pieces. John wasn’t sure he could eat anything else, after the pile of food for dinner, but he managed it, splitting an orange with Sherlock. Outside, the sun was beginning to set. It was beginning to snow again outside, although it looked like it would soon turn to sleet. John was beginning to feel tired and full of food, and soon enough, Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to be preparing to leave. John found he didn’t want them to go. Without them, it would just go back to being their first Christmas in a strange place, without his dad.

                Happily, there was a short delay when, as they stood to leave, Sherlock said slightly guiltily to John’s mother, “Sorry I didn’t get you anything.”

                “You got me the lovely wind chime, didn’t you?”

                “That was Mycroft.” Sherlock muttered.

                “Well, that’s alright, it’s from both of you.”

                “Why don’t you play us something, Sherlock?” Mycroft suggested.

                “What?” Sherlock pulled a face, not keen on the idea, but John sat up from where he had been lying on the carpet.

                “Go on, Sherlock, play something for us.” He had seen the violin in the shed when he had visited a few days before, and had wondered how good he was.

                “Oh, fine.” Sherlock sighed. “I’ll go and get my violin.”

                “No, you won’t.” Mycroft said, sternly. “Not until you pass your test. I’ll go.”  With that, Mycroft stepped out into the hall. John just had time to get to the living room door, intending to see him off, when he realised Mycroft wasn’t going anywhere. He simply turned on the spot and disappeared with a sharp crack. John finally understood how Professor Sprout had got into their garden.

                “Oh.” Said John’s mom in surprise. “Well I never.”

                “It’s called apparation.” Sherlock said. “I can do it too, but I only made one trip before the Ministry got a bit cross and said I wasn’t allowed until I did my test. Of course, I’ve done it a few more times since then.” He grinned.

                “You must behave yourself, Sherlock.” Mrs Watson said. “The rules are there for a reason.”

                “That’s what everyone says,” Sherlock replied. “But they never say what the reasons are.”

                At that moment, Mycroft reappeared, Sherlock’s violin in one hand and his bow in the other. They went back into the lounge and sat down. Sherlock fussed over the violin, adjusting the keys. John was surprised by how much care he took of it. He supposed this was like Agatha again, that in spite of his general indifference to the world, there were certain things Sherlock attached himself to.

                “He usually refuses to perform.” Mycroft announces. “But seeing as this is a special occasion, I thought he might oblige, particularly as he is so fond of showing off.”

                Sherlock glared and began. After a moment, to his surprise, John recognised the tune as ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’. It was his mother’s favourite carol. He wondered if Sherlock had somehow worked that out too and decided that as it was Sherlock, he probably had; though how he had come to learn the tune in the wizarding world, he wasn’t sure. He was, of course, very good at playing, and performed flawlessly. When he was finished, Mrs Watson got up and hugged him, kissing his cheek and saying thank you.

                Sherlock looked frankly startled, and quite relieved when it was time to go home.

 

*

 

 

                 “Johnny-boy!” Was Jim’s chosen greeting their first morning back at Hogwarts after the holidays as they met at breakfast. “Happy new year! How was the holidays? Not too much trouble with Sherley I hope?”

                “Not too much.” John shrugged. “Until he got hold of my DIY Science experiment kit. He used all of my mom’s bicarbonate of soda. And then he decided it would be more interesting if he added some scales and some pickled newt and-”

                “Bi what of what?”

                “Never mind.” John span on the bench to wave to another familiar face, having spotted Molly’s pigtails bobbing through the doors.

                “Happy new year!” She said, quite excitedly. “Gosh, it feels like it’s been ages, doesn’t it? How was your Christmas? I got a virus, I couldn’t eat a thing on Christmas day, I felt really ill and I cried and cried, but then when I felt better I came downstairs and mommy and my uncles were doing it all over again for me, isn’t that lovely?”

                “Well, my Christmas was terrible.” Jim said in mock solemnity, shaking his head. “Not one letter from any of you.”

                “Oh, Jim, I’m so sorry, I didn’t have your address and our owl is so old he just flies round in circles, poor thing, and-”

                “I have presents for you two.” John decided the wisest course at this point was to interrupt. “Sorry they’re late, but, happy Christmas.”

                “Thanks, Johnny.” Jim tore his open immediately and, finding the chocolate inside, decided that they were a valid breakfast alternative and tucked in. Molly looked disapproving. “What? I already finished yours, they were delicious, by the way. Want some?” He waved the tube at Molly.

                “No thank you.” She sniffed. “Not at this time in the morning.”

                “I will.” John put in his claim and took a handful of sweets. Molly shook her head and turned her attention to her gift.

                “Thanks, John. Is it alright if I open it?”

                “It’s the 8th January, Molly, I think you can, yes.”

                She did so, giving an excited little squeal when she saw the poster. “Oh John! Thank you! I don’t believe it!!” She squealed again in delight. John and Jim looked at each other, mystified. John thought for the first time, but certainly not for the last, that he was never going to understand girls.

                “Who or what are _The Beatles_?” Jim asked.

                “They’re a band! The greatest band of all time! And they’re all so dreamy… Oh, Jim, you _must_ have heard of them!” Molly was looking at him like he had grown an extra head, forgetting that unlike her and John, Jim had not grown up with a foot planted in the Muggle world. He frowned and shook his head. “Oh, Jim!” She said, sounding actually offended. “Well, _I_ know who they are, and I love them! Thanks John, I’m going to put it up right now!” Flushed with pleasure, she stood up and then hesitated.  “John… come with me.”

                “Molly, she’s nice. Much nicer than Ouimansk ever was, you’ll be fine.”

                “Yes, but with Ouimansk I knew he wouldn’t like me no matter what I did, so it didn’t matter. But now…”

                “Excuse me, but have I missed something?” Jim interrupted, waving an empty Smarties tube as a pointer.

                “There’s a new portrait for the Gryffindor Common Room.” John explained. “They moved Ouimansk during the holidays. Now he’s down near the potions room and we’ve got this woman- this large- well, she’s called the Fat Lady. Now we’ve got the Fat Lady instead.”

                “What?” Jim was confused. “They changed a portrait? But they never change the portraits, not for the common rooms.”

                “Yes, well, apparently Ouimansk kept letting some non-Gryffindor in.” John sighed.

                “Ah. So I take it that is the end of Sherlock’s little visits?”

                “Yep. She’s probably been briefed not to let him in. It’s a shame though, the Gryffindors all hated Ouimansk, a lot of them want to thank Sherlock.”

                Jim laughed. “So Sherlock’s a hero? Kind of suits him.”

                “John… please?” Molly was shifting impatiently from foot to foot, holding her poster carefully. Seeing that she wouldn’t be content until they went, John sighed and got up. Just as they were reaching the doors to the Great Hall, Sherlock came through them.

                “Hi Sherlock!” Molly said brightly.

                “Where are you going?” He asked, looking between them.

                “Just back to the dormitory; John got me a-”

                “No, you’re not.” Sherlock replied, taking them both by an elbow and turning them around, pulling them back to their accustomed place at the Gryffindor table. “Look at that.” He nodded up to the staff table.

                 “What?”

                “Oh, John, honestly, are you blind?” Sherlock asked, irritably. “Jim?”

                “Oooh, is this about the candle?” Sensing fun, Jim smiled. He gestured to the window behind the headmaster’s chair, where a black-waxed candle burnt on the sill.

                “I never noticed that before.” John admitted.

                “That’s because it wasn’t there before.” Sherlock replied. “But why is it there now? What’s it for? It’s black, it must be for a memorial to something, but what?”

                “I don’t know, let’s find out.” Jim pointed over to the doors of the hall where Professor Slughorn was just making his way in. Sherlock was on his feet immediately and the two of them beetled off together towards the teacher. John stayed behind. Sherlock was undoubtedly brilliant, potions being one of the few classes he was interested in and therefore actually worked during, and was from an excellent wizarding lineage. Slughorn had reportedly been quite devastated not to have the younger Holmes in his house like his brother, but still maintained a certain favouritism for him. Jim, also, as well as being from Slughorn’s own house, was reportedly from a respected line of Irish wizards and was one of the top scorers academically in the year. Between the two of them, John had no doubt, they could get the corpulent potions master to tell them anything.

                “Good morning, sir.” Jim called.

                “Ah, James, lovely to see you; and Sherlock too, how delightful.” He stopped, beaming. “How is your brother doing, Sherlock? I have great expectations of him, you know, he will undoubtedly go far in the Ministry! Although, of course, it wouldn’t do for him to outshine your dear father.” Here he winked conspiratorially. “How is your father? Any better?”

                “Not yet, sir.” Sherlock shrugged. “They believe it may have been some sort of mild stroke.”

                “Oh dear, dear, how awful.”

                Sherlock didn’t believe for a second that the Professor had any genuine concern for his father beyond the loss of one of his contacts he could brag about, but he didn’t say anything about it as he answered the subsequent questions about healers and treatments and let Jim work through his own interrogation about his family. Finally, it was time to ask their own questions.

                “Professor.” Sherlock said, when his patience ran out during a long anecdote about when the Professor had met one of Jim’s uncles at a wedding. “We were wondering about the candle.”

                “Which candle would that be boys?”

                “The black one, it wasn’t there before Christmas.”

                “Aha, you noticed! Clever boys! How observant! Well, we did want to keep it rather low key, you know, better best forgotten and all that, but seeing as you’ve asked… Twenty years ago today, a student unfortunately died here at the castle.”

                “Died? How?” Jim was all agog to hear the tale. Slughorn, as always, was delighted to have an audience.

                “A monster, dear boy, there was a monster let loose in the castle. Oh, quite accidentally I assure you, I don’t believe the perpetrator _meant_ to do as he did, but he was, well- anyway, perhaps I had better not prattle on too much, you know, some of those involved _may still be here now_.” This last part was said in a dramatic sort of whisper, with a rather exaggerated sideways look up to the top table, where the gigantic gamekeeper was discussing something with Dumbledore. His beard had grown some since they had first arrived in September; soon it would swallow his face. Perhaps that was the intention. “But it was a blessing in one way. For a while it was rather feared that someone had opened the Chamber of Secrets.”

                Sherlock’s ears pricked up at this. From a student, he would have ignored such a title, dismissing it as rumour and tall tales, but when a teacher- a boastful but knowledgeable one- told you about such a place, you stopped trying to deduce the gamekeeper’s secrets and paid attention.

                “The Chamber of Secrets, sir?” Jim asked, much better at feigning wide-eyed innocence than Sherlock would ever be. “What’s that?”

                “Oh, nothing, dear boys, nothing, just a silly school legend. The old tale goes that Salazar Slytherin didn’t like the idea of letting in the muggle-borns and so built a hidden chamber somewhere in the school, putting some creature of his in there to come out and target only those who weren’t pure blood, purify the school, as he saw it.”

                “Then where is it? This chamber?” Sherlock asked.

                “It’s nowhere! Now then boys, don’t get any alarming ideas. The school has been thoroughly searched many times over the years and no-one has ever seen any sign of it. It’s just a silly story. Don’t pay any heed to it. Now off you go- and behave yourselves! I don’t want the pleasure of your company in any more detentions, James!”

                “I’ll do my best, sir.” Jim answered, and they went back over to their friends. John was just beginning on a bacon sandwich.

                “Leave that.” Sherlock commanded. “We’re going.”

                “Going? Going where? Why?”

                “To look for the Chamber of Secrets.” Jim said, cheerily.

                “The what?” Molly asked, nervous.

                “Oh, it’s a hidden chamber with Salazar Slytherin’s pet monster in it, waiting to hunt down the muggle-borns.” Jim explained, winking at John.

                “If that’s true, I think I’m pretty happy not finding it.” John pointedly went back to his breakfast. It was too early in the term for this nonsense.

                “Come on, John.” Sherlock pleaded. “We need you. We can’t do it without you.”

                “You’re the bait.” Jim explained.

                “Well, of course, now I’m all for the idea.”

                “You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t you?” Sherlock frowned at the sarcasm. “Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

                “Sherlock, I doubt this place even exists and if it does, then it doesn’t seem like a good place for us to be. So why don’t we just sit down, eat breakfast, and forget it?”

                He was wasting his breath, of course. In the end, Sherlock and Jim went off on their own to get into mischief and John and Molly did the more conventional thing in going to class.

 

*

 

 

                Over the coming weeks, John couldn’t help but regret slightly his decision to stay out of their investigation. He had never seen either of them devote so much energy to something, frequently disappearing during lunchtimes to go to the library or to check a point with Professor Binns or Professor Slughorn, the two authorities on the history of the castle. In the evenings it wasn’t unusual to find Sherlock in the Gryffindor common room with his nose in some book about the history of Hogwarts. None of the Gryffindors seemed to mind that he was still spending a good deal of his time in there; after getting rid of the horrid Ouimansk, no-one cared that he had somehow how so charmed and flattered the Fat Lady that, having guessed from her numerous hints the correct password, she would swing open and let him in. The other Gryffindors had more or less accepted his presence and treated him as one of their own, or a favoured pet. Tonight, however, Sherlock had chosen John’s bedroom as a suitable place to practice his violin- again- and the tuneless picking was echoing even downstairs in the common room until John was dispatched upstairs to tell him to stop it.

                “Sherlock, do you have to do that in here?” John asked, pushing the door open.

                “Yes, the Ravenclaws won’t let me play when people are trying to work.” Sherlock answered. “And the Slytherins don’t like me being in their common room.”

                “Oh, I wonder why.” John sighed. “Look, Sherlock, can’t you give it a rest for a bit? It’s starting to get on people’s nerves.”

                “It helps me think.” Sherlock answered. “I’ll play a few requests in a minute, if it’ll stop them moaning-”

                He stopped, suddenly getting the glazed-eye expression that John recognised well, as it had been a precursor to many of Sherlock’s best and most brilliant ideas and a lot of the things that had landed him in detention. It was a look that signalled adventure. John wondered if he should just start putting on his coat now, in preparation.

                “I know who it was.” Sherlock said.

                “What?”

                “We’ve been so busy trying to work out _where_ the chamber is, we never thought about _who_!” He slapped himself on the forehead in frustration. “Oh, how could I be so stupid?! I’ll see you later, John, I need to go and find Jim.”

                With that, he hurried off leaving his violin behind and not giving John any time to say he wanted to join in after all. John did his best to follow, but Sherlock was a lot faster than him and didn’t seem to be heading towards the dungeons and the Slytherin common rooms, so in the end, John was forced to return to Gryffindor tower, racking his brains to try and work out what Sherlock had, replaying over and over the conversation in his head, but unable to come to any conclusions. All he could do was wait for the next morning and hope he hadn’t missed the adventure.

                When breakfast the next morning brought neither Sherlock nor Jim, John began to grow a little concerned. He decided not to tell Molly about the events of the previous night, not wanting her to worry about the distinct possibility that their friends had been eaten by an ancient monster, in spite of their pure bloodlines. Molly just accepted that the two of them were busy again and hoped Jim wasn’t picking up Sherlock’s unfortunate habit of skipping meals, asking John instead about the Quidditch match that afternoon. Gryffindor was playing Slytherin, which had in the preceding week, lead to a lot of good-hearted trash talk between John and Jim. Jim admitted he cared little about ‘proper’ Quidditch, but got into the spirit of things, supporting his house team at school; a sentiment Molly agreed with, and the three of them attended every match, sitting together except when both teams were in a match. Sherlock could never be prevailed upon to join them; John privately suspected a time when most of the school was outside was too good an opportunity for mischief for Sherlock to waste on something he had no interest in.

                For John, it was impossible not to be interested. He had always been keen on his sport, both cricket and his beloved Chelsea being passions for him; but Quidditch was out in a league on its own. Every match had the excitement of a cup final. John was already, largely thanks to Jim, well up on the rules and was beginning to be able to converse with the other boys in his dormitory about qualities and statistics; they introducing him to their professional teams. In return he tried to explain football, but they didn’t see how it could be interesting on the ground with only one ball, and cricket was incomprehensible to them. John stubbornly clung to his love of ‘muggle sports’ but, nevertheless, couldn’t help but dreaming privately sometimes about making the house team, being captain, winning the tournament. But first years weren’t allowed to play, without exception, and he knew he couldn’t fly as well as the players outside of his fantasies yet. But his time would come, and he privately vowed that he would be on the team for at least one year before he left.

                The match wasn’t until the afternoon, so Molly and John decided to head back up to the common room for now, in the certainty that should Sherlock want to find them later, he would certainly come there. Their route back took them past a certain girl’s toilet that John was quite surprised to see someone going into. He had never seen anyone go in there before besides Molly, who told him there was a ghost girl in there who seemed rather lonely, so Molly stopped in to visit her most days. The fact that it wasn’t Molly, however, was perhaps less surprising than the fact it was Sherlock.

                “That’s a girl’s toilet.” Molly said, in horror.

                “I know.” John gritted his teeth, realising they would have to go and get Sherlock out of there before one of the teachers- or some unsuspecting girl- found him. “Molly, go in and tell him to get out.”

                “But he won’t listen to me.” She protested.

                “I can’t go in a girl’s toilet.” John reminded her. “…unless necessary.”

                Promising to try, Molly took a deep breath and went in. This was followed a moment later by a scream and a horrified cry of “Sherlock!”. John realised that he would have to go in and did so with a sigh, hoping no girls came in while they were there.

                There was indeed the ghost of a girl, who cackled with delight when John came in. “So many people coming to see me.” She said, happily. “You almost missed the fun, they’re pushing the rat down the plug hole.” She whooped with laughter and, quite alarmed, John turned to see a horrified Molly and a determined Jim and Sherlock apparently doing their best to encourage Agatha down the drain in one of the sinks.

                “What are you doing?!”

                “It’s entirely necessary, John.” Sherlock said grimly, supervising Jim’s gentle pushing of the ferret, who was now in the plug hole up to its neck. “I believe the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is down there somewhere. Now be quiet, you’re interrupting in a vital stage of the proceedings.”

                “It looks like I got here just in time.” John answered, slapping Jim’s hands away and picking up the ferret himself, who struggled. Clearly Agatha was as mad as her owner and, in spite of her nerves, had wanted to go off on an adventure too. John kept a firm grip on her. Peeking out from under his fingers, the words “Keep on chillin’, you-” scrolled past on the ribbon, followed by a naughty word. John had to wonder where Jim had learnt them all to put them in the spell.

                “Look, here.” Sherlock was impatient, stabbing at something with his finger. “Do you see?”

                Intrigued in spite of himself, John bent down to look, finding a curious Molly at his shoulder. “It’s a snake.”

                “Symbol of Slytherin.” Jim said proudly. “We think it’s here somewhere, the Chamber, only we can’t get it to open.” He turned to the ghost girl. “Are you sure you didn’t do something, Myrtle? Tell us everything!”

                Apparently oblivious to Jim’s shortening temper, Myrtle leapt delightedly into a long anecdote that seemed to be a lot about another girl being unkind to her and not very much about anything to do with the Chamber of Secrets. Then something clicked.

                “She’s the student that died?” He said, alarmed.

                “Of course she is.” Sherlock adopted his superior tone as if he had known it all along, although John knew for a fact he himself had only realised it the night before. “And she died in here, so we investigated, and oh look, a sign. So we need Agatha to go down the drain and check it out.”

                He reached for the ferret, but John moved her safely out of his reach. “Oh no you don’t.” He said, firmly. “That’s animal cruelty. How is she supposed to report back to you what she sees, anyway?”

                “Agatha is an extremely intelligent animal!” Sherlock appeared quite offended.

                “Oh, well, that makes all the difference. Is she going to draw you pictures?”

                Sherlock scowled and tried to snatch the ferret back, but once again, John got out of his way. Just then Myrtle, angry that no-one was listening to her tale, with the added insult that Jim had cut her off at ‘the best bit’, saying he didn’t need to hear about her experience of death, began wailing loudly and disappeared into the pipes, clearly intending to flood the place. With water flying out at all angles, they had no choice but to withdraw and suspend the investigation.

               

*

 

                Sherlock was not to be deterred. If anything, he grew more impatient, certain that they were on the verge of finding the chamber. He would have been back at the bathroom within the hour, if they hadn’t pointed out that Myrtle had yet to be calmed down and was still throwing her tantrum. Then, in the afternoon, John and Jim both insisted on watching the Quidditch. Sherlock said he had half a mind to go on his own, but Jim pointed out he still had no clues as to how to open the chamber, and so Sherlock went to the library in vile humour, hoping to find something overlooked.

                To John’s disappointment it was Slytherin that won the match, although it was very close, and somewhat debatable. The Gryffindor keeper was knocked about the head with a Bludger and was rather the worse for wear the rest of the match, resulting in from goals alone, Slytherin having a lead of two hundred and ten points to sixty. The Gryffindor seeker made a remarkable capture of the Snitch, far outclassing the attempts of her Slytherin counterpart, seeming to accept a tie was their best bet, but just a second too late- the Slytherin Chasers having  just scored another goal less than a second before. It was debatable and fiercely contested, but John, in spite of his disappointment, knew in his heart of hearts that the quaffle had already cleared the ring before the seeker’s fingers closed around the snitch. The final score was  220-210 to Slytherin and the Gryffindors went back to the common room grumbling, but heads held high, knowing they had nothing to be ashamed of. The keeper was taken to the hospital wing, where it was discovered he was severely concussed and labouring under the delusion that his name was being changed to Nancy; and so returned to a hero’s welcome on Sunday morning for his bravery in continuing play and even stopping three shots while only semi-conscious.

                Sunday also brought with it the renewal of Sherlock’s attempts on the Chamber. None of them had seen him after he had stormed off on Saturday, and judging by his dishevelled appearance at breakfast the next day, he had hidden all night in the library. Again. He ran his hands through his mop of hair, leaving it standing out at all angles. John’s mother would never have let him get away with such long and unruly locks, and had made him have his hair cut over Christmas. It suited Sherlock though. John always privately thought he looked like a mad scientist or inventor; over Christmas he had seen a new television programme about a strange old man who travelled through time in a police box and had felt like he was seeing a vision of Sherlock’s future. Sherlock looked flushed and a little feverish, so John decided to pile his friend’s plate up with food, not sure when he had last eaten. It went ignored.

                “There must be a way in.” Sherlock said. “I’ve been trying to think about Slytherin, what he would have done. We know he was smart. We know he cared about bloodlines and stuff.”

                “And he could talk to snakes.” Jim added. “Sherlock, I’m kind of thinking maybe you have to be a parseltounge, if he wanted to keep it to his ancestors and all.”

                “There has to be another way.” Sherlock said stubbornly. Clearly this had already occurred to him. His face was considerably darkened with frustration.

                “…can’t you learn this parseltounge thing?” John asked cautiously, not sure he should be encouraging this scheme.

                “Nope, it’s heredity.” Jim shook his head. “They’re not sure how or why, but some people reckon you have to be a direct descendant of Slytherin to get it. My uncle can do it, but he married in.” Jim sounded disappointed, as if upset that an uncle not connected to him by blood wasn’t enough to gain him the power. John wondered how much the wizarding world knew about genes. John decided to keep quiet about his own uncle, who had the previous year won a Nobel prize for his work on genetics for fear Sherlock and Jim would be sending owls over to the states asking about the ability to talk to snakes. John had never met his uncle, but he wasn’t sure such a serious scientist would care for notes about magic.

                “There must be some trick.” Sherlock insisted, running his hands through his hair again. “I just need to think.”

                “Sherlock, maybe there isn’t.” Molly said as sympathetically as she could. “There isn’t always a trick to things. And maybe it’s for the best… it doesn’t sound like there’s anything good in this chamber.”

                Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, when Professor Melas hobbled over to them. The old man’s lined face was grave.

                “Mr Holmes. Sherlock.” He said. “Would you mind coming with me to my office?”

                Sherlock looked him up and down. John could practically see the list of his offenses flashing through his mind as he tried to work out what he had been caught for now. However, he must have reached a different conclusion, because he said, cautiously: “Am I in trouble?”

                “No.” The professor said. “No, I’m afraid I have some bad news, Sherlock. If you wouldn’t mind stepping this way?”

                Sherlock went, and he didn’t return to breakfast.

 

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

 

                When John went up to his room after breakfast, it was to look for Sherlock, and so he wasn’t surprised to find his friend in there, hunting round for something.

                “Ah, John, good.” He said. “Have you seen my violin bow? It’s disappeared.”

                “It’s here.” John answered, wondering how someone so observant could be so careless with his possessions. With the aid of his bedside table, he stretched up and retrieved the bow from where the end of it was sticking out over the canopy of John’s bed. “Sherlock, what’s going on?”

                “It was my brother, Mycroft.” Sherlock stood, violin in one hand and the bow in the other, but didn’t play. “I have to go home for a few days. A week at least.” His scowl showed how little pleasure he took in this idea. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

                “Home? Why?” John was alarmed. “Did Professor Melas finally suspend you? He said you weren’t in trouble!”

                “I’m not. My father’s dead.”

                This was said so matter of factly that John had to blink and get him to repeat himself before he could be sure he had heard correctly what Sherlock was saying. Mr Holmes had, Sherlock supposed, succumbed to his long ill health and finally passed away. Beyond that, he had no idea. He had not, it seemed, quizzed Mycroft very closely.

                “Anyway.” He said, scratching his head idly with the violin bow. “I told him I didn’t want to but apparently mother’s in a state so Mycroft is _insisting_ I go home at least until the funeral.”

                John couldn’t answer. Memories were assaulting him at a rapid-fire rate. His father waving to him before heading off with the rest of his unit, to intercede in some clash. A two-week deployment from the main barracks, not very far or long. Ten days later, in the classroom, seeing his mother come out of the office where she worked, looking dazed, finally falling on the ground and the teacher telling him to sit down when he tried to run out to her. Later, his mother, crumpled in a chair in the next room of their quarters, a friend of his father’s trying to comfort her, the teacher telling John things that didn’t make sense, his mother crying. And then five coffins being loaded, draped in the union Jack, to ceremonial gunfire; to be taken home and buried in Chelsea, his home town. Waking up at  3:14 AM and just _knowing_.

                “John?” Sherlock frowned. “Are you alright?”

                “Yes, yeah…” He shook his head. This wasn’t his time now. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry-”

                “It might not be a total loss.” Sherlock shrugged. “There should be plenty of Slytherins at father’s funeral, they were the only people he associated with. One of them might know something about the chamber.”

                John stared.

                _I want to punch him_ , he thought to himself, his hands balling into fists. _I really want to punch him_. To avoid doing so, he merely shook his head in disbelief and went to go downstairs.

                “John, what is it now?!” Sherlock asked in exasperation, grabbing his arm. “Don’t run off, I have some things for you and Jim to look into while I’m gone-”

                “Sherlock, your dad is dead! Don’t you care?!”

                Sherlock let go of his arm. “Not particularly.”

                “Oh really? And how do you think Molly would feel if she heard you say that?”

                “I don’t care how Molly feels.” He was staring straight at John now, not afraid of a confrontation. “This isn’t about Molly’s dad. Or, because it’s what you actually mean, this isn’t about _your_ dad. My father was basically a stranger to me, John. Before this I hadn’t seen him since I was seven, and we didn’t exactly get on. So I really don’t care that he’s dead, and I’m not going to pretend I do just because you or Molly or anyone else thinks I should.”

                “Ha.” John shook his head. “Do you even listen to yourself, Sherlock? I mean…” He searched for the words. “Don’t you ever wonder what the _hell_ is wrong with you?”

                “Not really.”

                “Really? I do.”

                Silence.

                “Go home, Sherlock.” John said. “And don’t you dare tell your mom you don’t care.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

 

                In the end, it was two full weeks before Sherlock returned to Hogwarts. John had told Jim and Molly what had happened, although he chose to spare Molly the details of his callous reaction; knowing she would be more worried than she already was if she knew Sherlock felt only indifference, not grief. They didn’t get a single letter from him in that time, as expected, and even though he was frequently missing at meal and break times even when he was at the school, his absence seemed more heavy than usual. They had two fairly normal weeks, or as normal as it was possible to have when you were in an old castle surrounded by ghosts learning how to use magic. One day Professor Slughorn was absent in order to attend the funeral, which he gave them a very sorrowful account of when he returned; although, if he was to be believed, there had been over a hundred people there, all of whom he had some acquaintance with and who all wanted desperately to speak to him. Sherlock was described as having been ‘very brave’ and ‘showed no signs of his grief’, except that he was holding his mother’s hand as she, ‘poor thing’, wept endlessly.

                John had no idea what Sherlock’s mother looked like, leading him into the uncomfortable imaginings of replacing her with his own mother. He thought of his parents a lot while they were waiting for Sherlock’s return. Finally, one day, Sherlock was already present at breakfast when they came down, evidentially having one of his meals where he would eat a ton. Molly, on seeing him, immediately ran over to hug him. Sherlock looked alarmed and sat very stiffly, practically playing dead, until she let go and asked if he was alright.

                “Glad to be back.” He said.

                “How is your mom?”

                “Unbearable.” Sherlock sighed. “She’s been practically hysterical the entire time, you wouldn’t have thought they’ve been avoiding each other for the last decade. She’s constantly surrounded by pandering friends, I think she just likes the attention.”

                Molly looked shocked and more than a little appalled, although whether it was at his mother’s conduct or Sherlock’s description of it, John wasn’t sure. He couldn’t even tell which it was in his own feelings.

                “She is pretending to hold Mycroft responsible for his death, saying my brother didn’t care for him properly and so on.” Sherlock continued. “So she’s been really clingy to me, I think just to spite him. It’s been awful, I couldn’t get a minute to myself.” He scowled. “I was glad to get away. It was only because your mom intervened, John.”

                “My mom?” John was startled. He didn’t want his mom involved in it, in any of it. She didn’t need to see such an apparently hostile house, or any reminders of the things she had been through. He hadn’t wanted her to see death ever again.

                “I think Mycroft must have asked her to, as mother wasn’t speaking to him.” Sherlock said. “She came up and drank tea with my mother and persuaded her I shouldn’t miss too much school and it would do me good to get back to normal. I think brother just wanted me out of the way so mother would go off on another trip too. Still, I’m glad she did.”

                The conversation changed gradually to normal territories, Jim launching in to a new investigation he had been conducting into the history of the Grey Lady. Sherlock, as the resident Ravenclaw, was scornful; sure he had already learnt everything of interest. The search for the Chamber seemed to have been given up or forgotten, but John saw no reason to remind them. He was still thinking about his mom, wondering if she was alright, and how difficult it had been for her to do that. As soon as he could get away, he went upstairs to write her a letter.

                He had only meant to tell her Sherlock was safely back and was grateful for her help and, perhaps, if he could get up the courage and find some way to articulate them, share with her his thoughts and feelings and concerns about all this and the memories swirling round his head. When he sat down to write, however, he couldn’t shake the recurring, guilty thought that his mother might be lonely. She had never made a fuss like Mrs Holmes, her grief had been more subtle, but John had been able to see it, dragging her down. He couldn’t think he had been wrong to leave her and come to Hogwarts, it was the best thing he had ever done- for himself. Still, he worried about her. He could only see one way to make amends and he took up his quill to write the letter before he changed his mind.

 

_Dear Mom,_

_Sherlock made it back to school today. He seems fine, although apparently his mom is in a bit of a state. I think he just wanted to get away. He told me you helped and he said thanks. I hope you’re alright. I’ll be home in a few more weeks for Easter._

_I know why he doesn’t like being at home though. It is amazing here. I wish I could show you, mom, I think you’d love it, and dad would have loved it even more. I told you at Christmas you don’t need to worry. I like my teachers and the lessons are interesting and me and my friends don’t get into trouble most of the time. Jim is funny and Molly is kind and Sherlock is weird and I think we make a good team. I’m still really happy here, so even though I miss you I don’t want to come home either because school is so fun. You can have friends and be happy too though, mom, so if Dean wants to have coffee with you sometime it’s okay as long as you want to._

_The Fat Lady had heard Sherlock was back when I came up to write this and she wanted to know when he would be coming back to the common room. I think she’s forgotten she was put up to keep him out! Everyone noticed he was gone and asked me about it, but I think they were glad of the break from his violin. Even the teachers have given up and don’t even look at us strangely when we all sit together at Gryffindor table. Sherlock still says Molly should have been in Hufflepuff so we could have had the complete set, but I don’t see why it matters so much. Professor McGonagall said I should trust my instincts as it is a kind of magical sixth sense, and it’s telling me that our friends are just our friends, and it was always going to be that way, whatever house and if we hadn’t made it into Hogwarts at all. I know you felt that way about dad, so maybe my magic comes from you! Either way, don’t worry, because I like it here._

_Don’t forget what I said!_

_Love, John_

 

 


	4. Chapter Three Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jumping forward quite a lot, we join Sherlock et al in their fifth year. Part 1 of 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re jumping forward a number of years now, to 1967; or to the beginning of year five. I appreciate it is a large jump but there were just things they couldn’t do until they were teenagers and I was trying to keep this fic short (ha). Basically, I just didn’t have any ideas for years 2-4, so there didn’t seem to be any point padding it out with filler. Therefore, please enjoy the beginning of year five- marriage, babies and Quidditch!

Chapter Three Part 1/3

 

_September 1967_

                John stepped through the barrier, pulling his trunk behind him. It was heavier than ever this year, but he didn’t notice the weight, looking around him with such intensity that anyone would think he was a nervous first year, not a well-seasoned fifth year. Indeed he was trying to see it all again through fresh eyes. He was hoping there would be nothing too alarming for Dean. Things seemed reasonably calm, and as long as his step-father could cope with the large number of owls and cats running around, he would be fine. A second later John’s mother stepped through, holding Dean’s hand in one of hers and pulling her case with the other. Once they had seen John off, they would be going to catch their own train down to Brighton to have their honeymoon in peace. Assuming that Dean wasn’t so freaked out by this that he divorced her.

                “Wow.” He said, smiling in bemusement, trying not to let his jaw hang open. John smiled, relieved. Ever since they had finally told him the truth, two weeks before the wedding, Dean had taken it in his stride- although, as John wasn’t allowed to do magic outside of school, perhaps he hadn’t believed it until now, when he had passed through an apparently solid wall.  They moved aside as more people came through, and stood contemplating for a moment. It was then John heard his name being called in the way it only was by one person.

                “Johnny-boy!” In spite of his experience, John didn’t quite have time to get out of the way before he found himself in Jim’s customary headlock. “Good to see you, Johnny, it’s been so long.” Jim continued as John wrestled free, dodging as John tried to get him back.

                Dean stepped forward, but John’s mother stopped him with a sigh, used to this kind of boisterous behaviour. “Just leave them to it, they’re friends.” She said. “And fifteen year old boys to boot.”

                “Jim, John!” The fight broke down as Molly ran over to join them.

                “Hey, Molly.” John greeted her warmly, hugging her back as she threw her arms round his neck. She turned to do the same to Jim, but he caught her round the waist instead, and turned her round, making her squeal.

                “Good golly Miss Molly,” he said to her, as he always did. “You sure like to ball.”

                “Yes, but I can hear my mama call.” She laughed, as she always did, finally hugging him tightly.

                “That’s it, I’ve decided, you’re all coming to stay with me next summer.” Jim said, wrestling an arm free to pull John into a kind of group hug. “You can’t imagine how unbelievably dull the holidays are! Honestly, I’d rather be dead than bored!”

Molly laughed good naturedly and released them. “It’s good to see you both.”

                John returned the compliment, but privately thought to himself yet again what a loss it was that Jim had ended up being more into music than sport. Ever since their first Christmas at Hogwarts, when Molly had realised that wizards didn’t know who _The Beatles_ were, she had been working to ‘educate’ Jim, with the end result that by Christmas in the second year he was as obsessed with bands and charts as she was. John’s attempts to get him interested in football or cricket had been, in comparison, a total failure. As for Sherlock, he had been a total loss cause, with no interest in sports or music, never watching a single Quidditch match and usually retuning the radio in John’s house when he visited. The only music he cared for was the dull classical kind, preferring Brahms to the Beach Boys. Usually when he was in the house, which was frequently, they just didn’t listen to anything.

                John hadn’t actually seen Sherlock in over a month, as he had, as usual, been in Paris with Mycroft visiting their grandmother; meaning that neither of them had taken up their invitation to John’s mother’s wedding. Sherlock had, however, been somewhat instrumental in his mother’s happiness, although he probably didn’t realise it. It had been a hot Friday in July, too hot even to be outside, and that evening John had been upstairs in his room trying to cope with some of the O-Level curriculum, sitting next to his open window. His mother was outside watering the flowers in the front garden, and he had heard every word of their conversation:

                “Hello, Sherlock.”

                “Is John here?”

                “He’s upstairs pretending to do maths. Wipe your feet before you go in, dear, I’ve just mopped the lino.”

                “Yes, Mrs Watson.” He recited as he always did. John heard the sound of battered trainers being pulled over the welcome mat. “I suppose it will be Mrs Hudson next time I see you.”  This was Sherlock’s only acknowledgement of the coming nuptials that would change the house he was so often a guest at. Mrs Watson had joked that Sherlock was having a harder time accepting it than her own son, who, at the very least, had decided Dean was ‘okay’.

                “Oh, no, I’m not changing my name this time. I wasn’t sure about it, and Dean said he didn’t mind, so…”

                “Really?” Sherlock was surprised. “I would have thought he’d hate being reminded that you didn’t love him as much as Mr Watson.”

                The front door opened and Sherlock came in. When, after fifteen minutes, Sherlock still hadn’t come up, John went down to investigate and found him watching _Coronation Street_ with his mother. As usual, he was guessing all the storylines, but Mrs Watson didn’t seem to mind, looking thoughtful. A few weeks later, she had tied the knot, taken her new husband’s name and both she and Dean had seemed much happier for it. John had been grateful to Sherlock, not that he would ever say it, instead getting his friend to explain some part of mathematics the year 9 students would have learnt at the grammar school while they were away at Hogwarts. Somehow, Sherlock had a much better capacity for these things.

                His talent, however, did not extend to letter writing. After John was finished introducing Molly and Jim to his mom and Dean, the subject came up.

                “So,” Jim said, digging in a pocket. “Did anyone else get Sherlock’s… letter?” He pulled it out, and John saw it was indeed the same as his- a French newspaper article with an unmoving picture of Sherlock and an old lady and the initials ‘S.H.’ scrawled in a blank corner with no further explanation.

                “Yeah.” He sighed.

                “Oh, I don’t know why he couldn’t explain.” Molly sighed. “I went to the library to try and translate it, but I couldn’t work it out at all.”

                “You went to a lot of trouble.” Jim shrugged. “I just drew a moustache on mine and pinned it on the wall.”

                Indeed he had. On closer examination, there was a moustache carefully inked under Sherlock’s nose. John laughed.

                “My mom translated it for me.” He said. “Apparently they stopped a bank robbery.”

                Jim laughed heartily. “You’re kidding.”

                “No, I’m not, it says he-”

                “John!” He was cut off by his own name being called, and then found himself being turned round and pulled off by Sherlock. “What have they done?!” Sherlock pulled him over to the edge of the platform and then stopped, outraged.

                “What have who done?” John asked.

                “Oh, even you can’t be this blind, John!” Sherlock said, outraged. “Look at it!”

                “Look at what?”

                “The train, John, the train!”

                “What about the train?”

                “Look at it!”

                Sherlock was getting more and more agitated, but as far as John could tell there was nothing significantly wrong or even different about the train. The only thing was that it had been repainted and was now black instead of red.

                “Sherlock, it’s just a different colour.”

                “Yes, but why?”

                “It probably just needed repainting.”

                “Then why not repaint it red?”

                “Maybe they’d run out.”

                “John, this isn’t funny. There must be a reason.”

                “I don’t know, Sherlock.” John sighed, giving it up as a lost cause. “Why don’t you take Jim and go and investigate on your own somewhere, quietly?”

                “What?” Sherlock seemed almost offended. John sighed again.

                “I’m sorry, Sherlock, it’s just, you know, Dean’s here, it’s his first time and he knows about me and everything and its sort of important.”

                “Oh.” Sherlock said, flatly. “Sorry.” He marched back over the platform to where John’s mother and his new step father were standing. “Congratulations.” He said, gruffly. John couldn’t help but smile. It may only have been one word, but from Sherlock, that was something. Sherlock glanced at John’s mother. “When are you due?” he asked.

                “…what?” John’s mother smiled nervously. “What are you talking about?”

                “Yes, what are you talking about?” John asked, somewhat menacingly. Sherlock looked between them in confusion.

                “I think it’s pretty obvious what he’s talking about.” Jim volunteered.

                “No, it isn’t.” Sherlock said quickly. “I’m not talking about anything, Jim, right?”

                “Oooh.” Jim answered, realisation clearly dawning. “Oh, no, of course not.”

                “Sherlock-” John started, but Sherlock interrupted.

                “Look, there’s my brother. Mycroft, here.”

                “Ah, there you are. You made it on time then, brother.”

                “I don’t need you to baby sit me.”

                “So you say, Sherlock, but the evidence, sadly,  is always to the contrary.” Mycroft returned, moving to greet each of them in turn. John had seen little of him during the holidays, although he had been round for dinner one evening. He had gained weight and was admittedly looking a little rotund; one consequence, Sherlock told him, of his rising reputation in the Ministry- better pay, and more fancy buffets. At twenty-two, Mycroft was the youngest of all the deputy-ministers, having followed his father into the Department for International Magical Co-operation. He had been, over the summer, tipped to become the department head, but, Sherlock confided, had turned the position down. When John had asked why, Sherlock had merely smiled and shaken his head, saying ministers were too visible. John had asked what exactly it was Mycroft was doing that he didn’t want seen, but Sherlock had refused to speak another word.

                Yet, all this seemed to be having something of a negative impact too. Mycroft was, as always, immaculately turned out, his waistcoat and robes of the highest quality and taste, yet they were looking a bit rumpled and the dark shadows under his eyes suggested, as Sherlock would later confirm, an all-nighter at the office before coming to see his brother off. This was unusual, as Mycroft was very particular in his habits. He had explained this at length on the occasion he had joined them for dinner, telling of how he always ate and slept at the same times every day, as it was the key to a healthy life, although the _occasional_ alteration to routine, as long as it was only _slight_ , was quite enjoyable. John could see how Sherlock and Mycroft could drive each other to distraction, and why they so rarely ate together. Still, when Mycroft took Sherlock by the arm and said “Sherlock, might I have a word? I just want an opinion on a small matter concerning a Greek gentleman of my acquaintance…”, Sherlock went willingly enough and the two of them disappeared into some secluded corner.

                Sherlock hadn’t finished when the train whistle started to blow, by which time John and Jim had already loaded all their trunks and reserved a compartment. They said goodbye to their respective parents and got on ahead of him; Sherlock climbing on board at the last possible moment, pausing only briefly to allow John’s mother to give him his hug and his customary instructions. Mycroft nodded simply to them, raising his umbrella in farewell, and Sherlock folded himself into a seat as the express got under way.

                John glared at him. Sherlock tried to look innocent.

                “What was that?” John demanded.

                “What was what?”

                “What you were saying to my mom! She’s not pregnant!”

                Sherlock snorted. “Yes she is.”

                “She doesn’t seem to think so.”

                “It’s not his fault if your mom hasn’t realised yet.” Jim murmured from the corner. John glared at him.

                “She’s only been married two weeks.”

                “John, you’re so old fashioned.” This slipped out from Molly. They turned to look at her in surprise and she coloured quickly, looking fixedly out of the window.

                “We’ve been a bad influence on you.” Jim said, sounding delighted, flicking her braid until she was forced to turn around and pull it out of her reach.

                “Anyway.” Sherlock said. “On the subject of babies-”

                “My mother is not having a baby!”

                “- does anyone want a ferret?” So saying this, Sherlock reached into his pocket and, with far more than his usual care, lifted Agatha out. The ferret, in opposition to her usual energy, lay sleepily in his lap, looking distinctly lumpy. “They should be ready in about three weeks.”

                “Oh,” Jim laughed, stroking Agatha’s head. “And what have you been up to over the summer, you naughty girl?”

                “I think that much is obvious.” John replied, raising an eyebrow. “Sherlock, how did she manage it? I mean, who is the proud daddy ferret?”

                “John!” Sherlock was scandalised. “You shouldn’t ask a lady things like that unless she’s ready to disclose it.”

                “Mm, yes, in other words, you don’t know.”

                “I can’t believe Agatha is going to be a mommy.” Molly was delighted, moving over to sit next to Sherlock and make a fuss of her. “But Sherlock, do you know how to take care of baby ferrets?”

                “Hagrid’s taking them.” Sherlock said, making John add Hagrid to his mental list of ‘Sherlock’s Secret Friends’ along with the house-elves and ghosts and half of the portraits.  Over the years Sherlock had cultivated an almost unique network of acquaintances that meant, he boasted, he could find out anything that had gone on in the castle within half an hour. John believed him. “But if anyone wants one, I don’t mind. She’ll probably have seven or eight.”

                “No.” Jim said immediately.

                “I think one ferret running round is enough.” John agreed.

                “Oh, but Agatha might like to have one of her children nearby.” Molly sounded tempted.

                “No she wouldn’t.” Sherlock immediately contradicted her. “So far motherhood had seriously impeded her in her investigations.”

                “Investigations?” John laughed. “Like what? She goes round solving crimes, does she? Maybe we should rename her Miss Marple.”

                “Not those kind of investigations, John. She’s a ferret.” Sherlock looked ready to go into one of his sulks again. They had all grown up since that first journey on the train where John had said one wrong thing and sent Sherlock off in a huff, but while they had decreased in frequency over the years they had grown in intensity, raging like a silent storm when he got upset. John forced himself to stop laughing. “But she is a very intelligent one, and very curious. Since she’s been pregnant, though, she hasn’t been interested in anything.” He scowled, probably taking it as a personal affront that after all these years his pet was no longer exciting.

                “It’s hard work, growing babies.” Molly reassured him. “I’m sure once she’s had them she’ll be back to being her old self in no time.”

                “How long are they pregnant for, anyway, ferrets?” Jim asked.

                “About forty days.” Sherlock said it as if it was forty years.

                “Hmm. Wonder if your mom could do it that fast, Johnny?”

                “My mom isn’t pregnant!” John was getting angry now. “And even if she was, how could you two possibly know about it?”

                “Just playing the game.” Jim said with his tone of studied nonchalance that always maddened John beyond belief. 

                “It’s not a game, not really.” Sherlock sounded unusually serious. “It’s a skill.”

                “I don’t think it’s a skill, I think it’s cheating.” Molly sighed. “It’s brilliant, of course, but I wish you’d just find things out the normal way.”

                “It’s a game.” Jim repeated. “It’s always been a game, that I win.”

                “Well, I’m not just playing around anymore.” Sherlock said, carefully transferring Agatha into Molly’s lap so he could lean forward. “I know what I’m going to do now.”

                John was amazed. At the end of the previous year, they had all chosen their subjects for O.W.Ls and in so doing had been subjected to a careers meeting with their heads of house. His own had been bad enough, but Sherlock’s must have been worse, Professor Melas announcing that Sherlock was a major cause of his retirement (a fact Sherlock was rather unfairly proud of) and eventually, after failing to get any ideas of what job he wanted to do, or convince him he needed to choose more than just Potions, Transfiguration and Herbology, had finally signed him up for Defence Against the Dark Arts, Astronomy, Charms, History of Magic and Ancient Runes, thinking Sherlock may just as well skip those classes as any others. Sherlock had then been sent away in disgrace to tell the tale to them.

John’s had been slightly kinder.  Professor McGonagall hadn’t been too overly sensitive in telling him to drop transfiguration saying  “Well, you’re a hard worker as long as Holmes isn’t in the class, but I just don’t think you have the imagination to do well at O.W.L level. I hope you aren’t thinking of a career that needs it?”

“Um, I’m not sure.” John said, not wanting to admit he hadn’t given it too much thought. “I don’t know…”

“Well, you don’t want to take on too much when you have those muggle exams to do too.” Professor McGonagall sounded heartily disapproving. John wholeheartedly agreed, regretting that his mother was still sticking to the stipulation that she had made years ago that he at least sat O-levels in English, Mathematics and the Sciences. “I suppose you were planning on following your father into the military. Isn’t that usually how it goes?”

John shook his head, firmly. “I don’t want to.” He said. “And my mom doesn’t want me to, so I don’t think my dad would either. I was more thinking…”

“Yes?”

“Well, I was… I was thinking I wouldn’t mind being a doctor.”

“Hmm. On their side or ours?”

“Ours.” John said, quickly. “That is, in the wizard world.”

“Very good.” She answered, picking up his blank time table and tapping it.  “Well then, you’ll need to be a good all-rounder. Herbology for a start, and Charms. They usually like Transfiguration, but I think having a good mark in something else will serve you better than a failing grade in my class. Potions, of course, and Defence Against the Dark Arts- that will have some healing elements in it.  Care of Magical Creatures will be a good enough substitute for Transfiguration, prove you can look after things. They like to see Ancient Runes too, to show you can apply yourself, and to look up remedies and so on. It’s challenging, but I think you’ll manage if you work.  So, you just need two more. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” All his favourite subjects had already been chosen, he wasn’t sure what to pick now. Thankfully, McGonagall gave him one of her piercing looks, then added Divination to the time table.

“Divination.” She said, sounding rather scornful. “I barely count it as a class, in all honesty; it’s all the parlour tricks of conjurers, but you have seemed to do rather well in it so far, and perhaps that ‘magical sense’ of yours needs a proper outlet.”

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wondering if he should confess that he had never seen a single thing in his tea leaves or crystal ball or anything else he was supposed to be doing, instead trusting his instinct, which was correct roughly half of the time. His fellow students seemed to hold him slightly in awe, thinking he was some sort of proper seer, not just gut feeling and guess work. No-one did it infuriate more than Sherlock who had, in the first class, so offended the teacher by saying he could ‘predict’ more with simply observation and deduction that he had been thrown out and hadn’t attended a single other class ever since the beginning of third year. Still, as much as he shared Professor McGonagall’s dislike of the subject and cynical as he was about anyone’s ability to see the future, he had over time come to accept John’s sixth sense and would usually at least take it into account if John had the feeling that something was about to go badly wrong.

“And so you just need one more. I think we can dismiss Arithmancy, it crosses over with Divination and you’ll have quite enough on your plate as it is, with those extra exams of yours. So that leaves you with Astronomy or Muggle Studies.”

“Can I do Muggle Studies?”

Professor McGonagall raised her thin eyebrows, not impressed.

“I just mean,” John said, hurriedly. “It would be interesting to see how it’s viewed from outside.”

“And four years at this school hasn’t done that?”  John couldn’t answer. Professor McGonagall sighed and added it to his time table.

“Oh, very well, as you have your mother’s exams to think of I’ll allow you an easy pass. But, Mr Watson, I do have a condition…”

Her condition was accepted more-or-less readily and so, on the train back to Hogwarts, John found himself heading for a year in which he would be studying Herbology, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Divination, Muggle Studies, Care of Magical Creatures and Ancient Runes. Of all his friends, he had the most subjects in common with Jim, but this was for the very simple reason that Jim was taking more O.W.Ls than anybody else in the year. It was, John supposed, the difference between being a genius who actually did some of their class and homework, as Jim did, always finishing long before everyone else; and a genius who refused to do any, like Sherlock. After four full years of never submitting a single piece of homework, most of the staff had just given up on Sherlock, as had John and Molly. Jim, therefore, was studying every subject but Divination, which he respected about as much as Sherlock did. He had confided that he wasn’t originally going to do Muggle Studies either but, as he figured that John and Molly could give him all the answers, it might be fun. For her part, Molly had her own eight- Charms, Transfiguration, Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, Herbology, Astronomy, History of Magic and Potions, which meant she would be in at least five classes with John. John wasn’t sure whether this was a good or a bad thing. He had a habit of forgetting what the homework was, and Molly had a habit of reminding him of it in good time, whether he wanted her to or not. It was a shame the four of them were never going to be in a class altogether, but there was a good chance that John would never be without one of his friends- and that was the way he liked it. If he had a choice, he thought, he would like to be with Sherlock in Defence Against the Dark Arts, because there was a chance that Sherlock would at least turn up for the practical lessons, and with Jim in Ancient Runes, because he was fairly sure he was going to need one of his two smart friends there and paying attention in order to explain it to him afterwards.

His classes, however, weren’t his main concern for the coming year. Professor McGonagall’s condition of allowing him to take Muggle Studies, a subject he could easily pass, was that he used the time it would free up to get onto the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. John had coloured slightly at this, wondering if she had somehow read his mind. The truth of it was, John had been longing to be on the team ever since the first year; but when it came to try outs, there was always some reason not to go for it. None of his friends knew of his private ambition; but Professor McGonagall told him, he was a ‘damn good flier’ and, as she desperately wanted Gryffindor to win the House Cup, she would find a reason to keep him in detentions the entire year if he turned coward again and didn’t apply. So, it seemed, he didn’t have a choice. He was just determined to pass the trials and was, in truth, quietly confident about his chances; having seen the quality of some of the others in his year and the years above.

This was all, of course, quite beside the point; Sherlock having just made the frankly astonishing revelation that he had resolved upon a career.

“If you’re about to say you’re going to work for the ministry like Mycroft,” Jim groaned. “I’m going to throw myself off this train right now because the world is becoming so dull.”

“I would never do anything Mycroft would approve of.” Sherlock answered indignantly, sending the other three into laughter.

“Come on then, Sherlock.” John said. “Let’s hear it. Astound us.”

“We’re braced for the worst.” Jim agreed.

“I’m going to be a detective.” Sherlock said, simply.

“Oh, like your grandmother?” Molly sounded like she supported this plan. John couldn’t help but think how ludicrous it was, and yet, if anyone could pull it off it was Sherlock; and somehow, it suited him. He decided that, bizarre as it was, this might be his friend’s best hope of work.

“No, like her, but so much more.” Sherlock seemed almost happy. “I had this idea. I don’t want to be just a normal P.I., the cases you get that way are unbelievably boring and commonplace; but I couldn’t stand working for the Ministry either. So I’m going to make them come to me.”

“And how are you going to do that?” John wasn’t sure if he was amused or disapproving. “They don’t just consult amateurs, you know.”

“I know.” Sherlock leant forward again, actually smiling. “So first of all, I’ll prove I’m not an amateur.”

For a moment there was silence as they digested this, probably thinking, as John did, that this was even more ridiculous, but that he might somehow find a way to make it work. Finally, Jim laughed. “It’s a crazy idea, Sherley, but it sounds fun. Maybe I’ll join you.”

“I work alone.”

“Fine, we’ll be rivals.”

“I look forward to it.”

They shook on it. John decided, as he frequently did, that he would never understand the finer points of operation in the friendship between Sherlock and Jim. 

 

*

 

 

The ferret babies were born on Sherlock’s sixteenth birthday, to the great relief of all involved. About a week after their arrival at Hogwarts, Hagrid had come over to them at the table and explained that Agatha needed to be kept somewhere soft and warm and still so she could make a nest, and that Sherlock’s pocket wasn’t suitable. Sherlock had accordingly, although rather reluctantly, laid his ferret in the gamekeeper’s giant hands, and Hagrid had taken her to his house, where he left her in a large box in front of his fire with enough material to build her nest; although, to Sherlock’s alarm, she seemed to favour her own fur. Sherlock had been unusually tense ever since their separation and insisted on going down to see her every day, while still maintaining that he didn’t really care; as if anyone believed him. Even his birthday failed to make an impression, not that it ever did anyway.

He had at least remembered to come down to breakfast to receive the cards and well-wishes off his friends. The three of them had put together to buy him some fresh ingredients for his beloved Chemistry set, which after a year of using John’s back in first year, Mrs Watson had bought him the following Christmas. Sherlock’s, John had to admit, had got far more use than his own and made for some interesting potions lessons; as Sherlock worked to combine the Muggle knowledge of chemical reactions with the magical processes involved in potions. The two certainly seemed incompatible, but over the years, through hard work and a lot of failed attempts usually of the explosive variety, Sherlock guardedly told them he was making some progress, though he would never go into details. He seemed greatly pleased with the magnesium ribbon and sodium ferrocyanide refills, but none more so than the phenolphthalein that he had apparently been waiting to get. Mycroft sent him some sort of difficult looking book, but Sherlock had remained, his head buried in it, through most of breakfast. The fact that his mother, once again, had forgotten to send so much as a card wasn’t commented on; although the carefully-wrapped box of chocolates from John’s mother was jealously pulled away from Jim and stowed safely under the bench. Sherlock was so intently looking through his new book that he failed to notice Mycroft had also written to John.

_Dear John, Sherlock may be getting older but he is by no means mature. Please ensure he sits at least one exam this year. I’m counting on you- M_

John felt this was a rather tall order and wasn’t sure why it fell to him to do it, although of course he would do his best. Still, it might turn out to be easier than anyone anticipated, as in the first few weeks of term Sherlock had shown a surprising interest in Ancient Runes. Naturally this meant he was already yards ahead of the rest of the class and was practically fluent already, sitting and doing translations aimed at NEWT level and beyond. Unfortunately John had got the reverse of his wishes, and although Sherlock was very good at Ancient Runes, he wasn’t very good at explaining it to his struggling classmates, like John. John had already given up on learning anything in class and asked Jim about it when they were in the library trying to do homework.

Mycroft’s note wasn’t the last of their post that morning, as it was soon followed by a scribbled note from Hagrid.

_Agatha in labour. Come now. Hagrid_

Sherlock had no sooner read it then he stood up and left, leaving the others to gather up his scattered possessions and follow. Unfortunately, none of them remembered the parcel lying under the bench.

By the time they arrived, Agatha was already the mother of two hairless babies. As they waited, another three emerged, the last of which was half the size of the others.

“I reckon’ tha’s it.” Hagrid said, standing up from where he had been kneeling next to the nest. “She did really well. It’s a small litter, but that little’un there will be the runt.”

As it turned out, the gamekeeper was wrong. Agatha’s labour continued and she had another two babies, each smaller than the one before it, bringing her litter to seven in total.

“Seven, a good magical number.” Hagrid said, approvingly. “Though tha’ last one is tiddly. I’ll keep an eye on ‘im, don’t yer worry about it.”

“They’re like Russian dolls.” Molly said in wonder, enchanted.

“You’re right, you could just stack them up like Tupperware.” Jim agreed, coiling an arm around her shoulders so he could go in for a proper look. “Ugly little beasties.”

“They’ll look better when they’ve got some fur.” Hagrid said.

“When can I take Agatha back?” Sherlock asked, unable to stop himself sounding eager. His face fell when Hagrid explained that she would need to stay here with her kits for a while, though John knew for a fact it wasn’t unexpected. As Agatha began to push her children into place to be fed, her owner looked vaguely disgusted by this scene of domestic bliss and made a quick exit. The others followed, Molly having to be torn away from the scene. John, who had found the whole thing a little distasteful to watch, decided he would never understand girls; Jim was right, they _were_ ugly, although to be sure, they would be cuter when they had some fur. Jim was teasing Molly on this very point, telling her they looked like little maggots, at which point Molly rather surprisingly confessed that she thought, in some ways, maggots were cute too. Jim continued to laugh and joke at her expense, and with Sherlock brooding in his customary way, John slipped quietly into his own thoughts. There were only a few days until the Quidditch trials. He could do it. He was _sure_ he could do it. But it couldn’t hurt to just run through his technique a few more times in his head before then.

 

 

*

 

 

 

It was Friday, the day before the Quidditch trials. John was feeling pretty confident in his flying skills, having managed to slip away at lunchtime to practice. Sherlock hadn’t come to eat at all, presumably heading down to see Hagrid and check on Agatha’s progress, or buried in one of his projects, often disappearing for hours on end to research goodness only knew what. His peculiar passions seemed to be cataloguing and analysing, John having once, during the fourth year, returned to his bedroom in Gryffindor Tower to find that Sherlock had collected soil samples from all over the Hogwarts grounds and arranged them in piles on his bed. John had explained to Sherlock that he didn’t care for this kind of work, particularly not when it involved dirt all over his bed clothes. Sherlock had been quite upset that in throwing it all off, John had ruined his work and he would have to start over. The altercation had eventually ended when Sebastian had wandered in, taken one look at the scene and without a word left again. Molly appeared a second later, having apparently been sent up by Sebastian, and in her usual way, managed to patch everything up; persuading Sherlock that he had, after all, been rather inconsiderate, or rather thoughtless and a surly John that his friend was only trying to involve him, and should be forgiven. And so they went on, with Jim  the deliberate and Sherlock the accidental instigators of mischief, John the weary tolerater and Molly keeping them all reconciled; every day providing fresh evidence, Sherlock said, that she should have been in Hufflepuff and making them all suspect that the hat put her in Gryffindor for no other reason than keeping the rest of them in line. That lunchtime she had been busy with Jim, the two of them heading to the library so Jim could assist her with her Transfiguration homework. Glad to have an excuse, John had gone to fetch the broom that he had been given by Sherlock at the start of the third year. The Holmes estate had, of course, a broom shed full of the finest models, but as neither of them ever flew if they could avoid it, John had felt justified in taking one as a long-term loan. Strictly speaking, it hadn’t been offered to him before he had taken it, but as the two of them would have undoubtedly noticed by now John decided to take their lack of objection to mean the broom was his. It was a good model too, a classic, and because he had cared for it properly since acquiring it, John was sure it could put up against any of the newer series that had been released since. He was also confident in his ability to fly, his last run round that lunch time reassuring him that he was perfectly competent, if not skilled.

The only reservation John had about his ability to get into the Gryffindor Quidditch team was that he hadn’t had much practice at actually playing Quidditch. He hadn’t confided in his friends or his mother about his intentions, knowing a big deal would be made of it, so he had no-one who could practice with him. It was John’s intention to try out for keeper. It had been a long time since he had played cricket with the other children in the family barracks, but he had always been the best fielder they had, once catching out an entire team on their first bat in a moment of historic glory. In football he had preferred to play striker, but when he had been stuck in goal, he had been good. This year half the spots on the team were open, for two beaters, a chaser and the keeper. John hoped by going for keeper his experience in muggle sports would compensate for his inexperience at Quidditch in a way that it wouldn’t for the other positions, and privately ranked his chances reasonably high as he came in to land and, dropping his broom off at the dormitory, went to find Molly and Jim.

The two of them were still in the library, heads together, whispering. The parchment was still unrolled in front of them, so John assumed they were talking about the work, but when he came close enough he realised they had gone off on one of their usual tangents and were debating whether _The Monkees_ were worth anything musically, Molly saying the songs were ‘fun’ while Jim was maintaining that wasn’t the point; the band was manufactured and ‘fake’. Molly seemed less into her music nowadays than Jim was, John suspecting that her pre-teen obsession with the latest bands was failing to survive in her teenage years, while Jim got more serious every day. Molly seemed quite relieved when she noticed John approaching.

“Sorry, have you been waiting?” She asked. “We’re not done yet.”

“Lunch is over.” John said. “We need to get to Charms.”

“Really?” Molly squeaked, so loudly she earnt herself a glare from the librarian. “Oh no! I haven’t got this done yet…”

“Don’t worry.” Jim told her, leaning in to whisper in her ear so as to avoid the librarian’s wrath. “We’ll find somewhere quiet and private where we can work on it after dinner.”

“Alright! Come on, let’s get to class!” Suddenly moving with resolution, Molly swept her things into her bag and dashed out, leaving Jim smirking after her.

“Oh my,” he said, without a hint of remorse. “Have I said something wrong?”

“What?” John wasn’t listening, running through his techniques again as they followed after her.

“Well, _someone’s_ absent minded today. Head on the Quidditch pitch, hmm?”

“What do you mean?” As they caught up with Molly, Jim finally had his full attention. He seemed rather pleased with himself.

“Sherlock thinks you’re going to try out for the Gryffindor team tomorrow.”

“Does he?” John sighed. “So, next question, why does Sherlock think that, and then, do you actually mean Sherlock or is this in fact, you?”

“Me.” Jim confessed with a shrug. “But he does think so too. As to how we know, you’re not exactly subtle, Johnny-boy. We will notice if you come back from wherever you obviously lied about going to wet or with mud on your shoes that could only have come from the Quidditch-”

“It’s just the same as any other mud!” John could never let this old argument go. He was still a little sore about his ruined sheets, and admitting that anything had come of the ‘research’ would have been to admit defeat.

“No it isn’t.” Jim smiled, amused at his stubbornness. “This is why you’re useless at transfiguration, John. You have imagination, but everything is so black and white to you you’re practically colourblind.” He punched him playfully. “Never mind, that’s what we love about you. Our stalwart old John Watson.”

“Jim, shut up.”

“We’re going to come and cheer for you tomorrow, John.” Molly informed him. “So do your best!”

“I don’t really want this to be a big deal. You don’t have to come, I’ll just tell you how it went when I get back.”

“It’s no trouble.” Molly answered. “We want to be there. Really.”

John sighed. “Molly, if I wanted you to know, don’t you think I would have told you myself?”

“No-one told me.” She replied, going into the classroom. “I saw your name on the sign up sheet.”

“That girl,” Jim grinned. “Will go far. Come on, Johnny-boy, let’s go see what old Flitwick has in store for us today.”

 

*

 

 

“Are you nervous?”

“No.” John said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, come on now, not even a little?”

“No, not at all.”

“I think you are.”

Apparently sensing John was nearly at the point where he was going to snap and punch Jim in the face, Molly placed a restraining hand on Jim’s arm.

“Jim, leave him alone.” She said.  “You’re just making him more nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.” John repeated.

“Nerves are good. Adrenalin will improve your performance.” This was Sherlock’s contribution, probably learnt from John’s O-level biology text book.

“Look, why are you all even here?” John asked. “I’m fine on my own.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Jim drawled. “I’m expecting an inspiring try out. Maybe I’ll be so inspired I’ll go for the Slytherin team, it would be fun to play against you.”

“That would never happen.” John ground out. For all his natural talent, Jim had quickly lost interest in his flying lessons and grown lazy, leaving him a competent flier but not an amazingly skilled one; he might not even make a team, except that it was Jim, who always succeeded at everything he tried. This time, just for once, John wanted to be good at something his friends weren’t. He knew it was a selfish goal, but consoled himself that when he was up against egos like Sherlock’s and Jim’s, he needed some sort of outlet. “Sherlock, why are you here? You’ve never watched Quidditch in your life.”

“Molly made me.” Sherlock sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ve brought a book.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” John answered savagely. If he was honest, he was in a foul mood that morning, and not only because his friends were insisting on coming to watch the trials. It was also because they were right. He had received a short letter from his overjoyed mother that morning, informing him she had been to the doctors and found out she really was pregnant, already eleven weeks gone. John was not best pleased about what this said about his mother’s conduct before she got married. Nor was he keen on the idea of having a younger half-sibling fifteen years younger than him. He would be thirty before they were the age he was now, it was just weird. Besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted a baby around the place.

In reality, he knew his bad mood was more due to the fact Sherlock and Jim had been right, as always, not just that he wasn’t at all sure he wanted a baby sibling. He hadn’t shown the note to any of them yet, or replied to his mother. He knew he needed to talk to Molly, who would sympathise and get excited and coax his better feelings out of him, the feelings at the back of his mind gently trying to point out that his mom was happy about it so he should be happy for her. For the moment, however, he had more important things to deal with as they had reached the Quidditch pitch. He left his friends to go into the stands and headed down onto the grass.

The playing field had been divided up into thirds, one section for each of the try outs. It seemed to John that half of Gryffindor house had turned up to try out, more than twenty of them there in addition to the existing members of the team. As the Captain, a seventh year girl called Eris Etaine, who was half the size of most of her team but proved to be a speedy and quite successful chaser explained what they would be doing, John tried smiling at Sarah Finke from the year above, to whom he had never said more than two words but in truth quite fancied. He was unsuccessful, his attempt met with a glare and a hard look. Two of the girls from his own year had come to try out too, but John doubted they’d meet with any success as they flew about as well as a Morris Minor. Also, he had disliked them ever since they had bullied Molly in the second year, making her cry, and landing John in one of his few detentions as when he caught Sherlock and Jim practicing jinxes on them in revenge he had joined in. The only other one there from his year was Sebastian.

John was a little surprised to see Sebastian there, not having thought team games were much his kind of thing. Not that he knew Sebastian well, the other boy had always been a loner, very quiet and very private, although he was successful academically. He didn’t seem to have many friends, though John had found him talking to Jim more than once since they had come back to Hogwarts that year so perhaps, at last, he would get to know him better. Sebastian caught his eye and nodded before departing up to the top end of the pitch to try out to be a Beater. John made his way to the other end, where the Captain herself would be trying them out as Keepers. There were seven of them in all, less than for the other positions, but as a ‘W’ John was, as usual, the last to have a turn. Eris called up the first competitor and began.

The Gryffindor Captain was certainly a tricky customer, skilled enough that it was obvious why she was the best for scoring even if she wasn’t the best flier. John was grateful he wouldn’t have to defend against her after this, but he thought he could manage as a one off. She was good, sending a mixture of shots at the goal, from different angles, feinting and changing speeds. John watched her carefully, not bothering to watch the attempts of the would-be keeper. He might not have been as good at ‘the game’ as Sherlock and Jim, but he had learnt something about observation and deduction, and he noticed that even as she made a shot, she was preparing for the next one; relaxing if she was going to send it back slowly, tensing if it was going to be quick-fire, shifting her weight in preparation for a change in height or angle. He could feel the strange sixth sense that was still a part of him joining in with his eyes, his instincts building on what he saw to intuitively understand what she was doing. He was fairly sure that he could predict her shots with reasonable accuracy and be there to intercept them. He could certainly, he thought, do better than the other hopefuls. The girl who had bullied Molly hadn’t stopped a single shot, and the most anyone had stopped was three out of five. John was sure he could do better.

It was time to put his confidence to the test. It was his turn.  He watched Eris carefully, calculating what he was going to do and was so busy looking at her that he didn’t look at the ball and completely missed the first shot.

“Come on, you aren’t even bloody trying, Watson!” Eris shouted, readying her next shot. John flushed and prepared himself. If he was going to make the team, he couldn’t miss another shot.

“Focus, John!” This was from Sherlock, of all people, who was on his feet and shouting in displeasure, apparently not realising how hard it was for John to focus after this unprecedented amount of support. He very nearly missed the second shot too, realising at the last instant the quaffle was coming towards him, just where he expected it to be, and he snatched it out of the air with the tips of his fingers. He threw it back to Eris, who immediately sent it back at him with such speed that, although he caught it, he had to go quickly into a dive to prevent the tail end of his broom going through the hoop with the force of it, which would have counted as a foul.

“Nice flying!” Eris actually seemed pleased and the next shot was a more complicated one, putting a spin on the ball that should send it forward as if to the left hoop before the curve completed and it would veer through the edge of the centre hoop. It was a tricky shot to execute successfully, and even harder to stop, but John did it, ready and waiting as the quaffle approached the centre hoop. She tried to throw him with the next shot aimed straight at the left hoop, but once again John had guessed her intention and was there waiting to stop it. It was during the fifth and final shot that potential disaster occurred.

Eris had just thrown the quaffle in a neat little shot where the ball would soar high up into the air, going straight through one of the hoops on its descent, when a voice called from the far end of the pitch.

“Look out!” they roared and John realised that a bludger was speeding down the field having just been whacked with incredible strength by one of the hopefuls. It narrowly missed the Chasers and was coming towards him at top speed. It wouldn’t hit him, it would pass over his head. Except, if he waited for it to pass, he would certainly miss his chance to catch the quaffle and his place on the team. His dream of five years was about to be smashed by a mere piece of sporting equipment. It didn’t take John more than an instant to decide he couldn’t let that happen and, gripping his broom firmly, he streaked upwards with as much speed as he could muster.

Not quickly enough. The bludger was going to make direct contact with him and the quaffle would pass over his head. John couldn’t let that happen. He just had time to register the thought that it couldn’t be that different to football when the bludger was on him. He raised his height another few centimetres, pulled his leg back in mid air and kicked the bludger away as hard as he could. He leg vibrated with the impact, but he couldn’t let it stop him. As his leg swung forward he threw himself backwards, catching the quaffle in the tips of his fingers, arms outstretched behind his head, catching it just as it began to fall to earth.

It was a fantastic catch, but no-one was watching. All eyes were on the bludger, going like a rocket back across the field.

“Bloody hell, Watson!” Eris was beside herself with delight. “Can you do that with a bat as well as with your feet?”

John, tucking the quaffle under his arm, looked over at the potential beaters and the bats they held and considered. It looked a lot like a particularly vicious game of rounders or cricket. “Probably.” He said.

“Then you’re at the wrong sodding end of the bloody field! Get up there and try out for beater!”

John obliged, the Captain following him to come and watch. Feeling confident, he upped his speed, outstripping her easily and making her whoop in delight. When he reached the beater trials, Sebastian flew up alongside him.

“Sorry about that.” He muttered. John turned to look at him and thought he didn’t look very sorry, but Sebastian left before the puzzled John could ask him what he was up to.

His beating pleased the captain so much that John began to wonder why he hadn’t thought of going for it in the first place. The trial mainly consisted of hitting the bludger different distances and directions, as well as testing his basic ability to react and fly to where he was needed. Finally, when the trials were over, Eris called them altogether.

“Alrighty.” She said, rubbing her hands together. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea. Richards, I want you to be Keeper; I know you only made three but it would have been four if you hadn’t been so nervous. You’ll have to deal with that stage fright or you’ll be off the team before you even settle in. Chasers, I ain’t sure about you lot yet, but it’ll be between Andrews, Chambers and Moritz, so you three be back here tomorrow morning nine o’clock and the rest of you give it up. Moran, you’re beater number one cause I’ve never known anyone able to hit a bludger so hard you nearly decapitate half the bloody field and Watson, you’re beater number two because I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you spend the whole game flying round in little circles around some sodding hoops when you fly and hit as well as you do.” She paused. “No offence, Richards, we’ll make a decent keeper of you yet but you fly about as well as my aunt Mabel over distances.” Suddenly she threw up her hands, dismissing them. “Right, well, that’s it! Those of you on the team, congratulations, watch out on the notice board for practices and that, round two Chasers be here tomorrow morning and now the lot of you can sod off.”

With that, the foul mouthed Captain went on her way, looking rather happy with how things had turned out, and John went up to join his friends in the stands, grinning. He was rather glad they had been there now; it had been a rather spectacular catch.

“I’m in.” He said. “She’s made me beater with Moran.”

“I’m not surprised, after you booted that bludger so hard.” Jim shrugged. “You’re lucky you didn’t dislocate that leg.”

“I think I might have done.” John confessed, rubbing it. It didn’t help the pain in the slightest.

“I thought you were limping!” Molly exclaimed. “We need to take you to the hospital wing.”

“Don’t fuss, Molly, he’s fine.” Sherlock answered. “He’s a hardened Quidditch player now. The indestructible John Watson.” He clapped John firmly on the shoulder. John looked at him suspiciously.

“What are you after?” He asked.

“Nothing at all.” Sherlock assured him. “It’s just a beautiful day out, to be outside, in the outdoors, with good friends, celebrating your achievement; I think I’m in the mood for a walk. We could go together.”

“Uh-huh.” John was not impressed. “Except, Sherlock, you forget that I have known you for years and I happen to know that you never have fewer than seven ulterior motives at any given time so unless you tell me what they are, we’re not going anywhere.”

“I just value the time we spend together.” Sherlock answered, never sounding more insincere in his life. “And we could stop off and pick a few mushrooms, which I think may be the catalyst needed to get chemistry and potions to respond to each other.”

“Oooh,” Jim grinned. “Are we going in the forest?”

“No!” Molly protested. She had never accompanied them into the forest, but always lived in terror of their being caught for a third time; at which point it was promised they would be suspended at the very least. It didn’t matter how many times Sherlock pointed out that they had only been caught twice in twenty or thirty trips, Molly refused to believe it was ever worth their going there. Luckily, over the years, the three boys had perfected the art of ignoring Molly when it was convenient.

“Remember where we found the giant spiders webs last time?” Sherlock asked. “They grow there.”

“Yes, I saw them too.” Jim rubbed his hands together, gleeful at the anticipation of some light rule breaking. “Splendid.”

“Do we have to go now?” John was less enthusiastic. His leg really was hurting him and he was a little tired from the trials; more than that, the glow was beginning to fade from his elation with all these distractions and he wanted to rest on his laurels a little longer before they wilted entirely.

“They’ll be easier to find during the day.” Sherlock said. “And the spiders will be asleep.”

“Sherlock!” Molly was now truly fearful. “You told me you didn’t see any last time!”

“We didn’t, we didn’t.” Jim put a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Either the webs were abandoned or the spiders were out hunting and we were lucky enough to have missed them. So don’t worry, we’ll be super-duper careful, I promise.”

“John, you’re not going along with this, are you?” Molly had yet to work out that her appeals to John’s sensible side usually had the opposite effect to the one she wanted. John could be sensible, but not when he was expected to be.

“They’re only going to go anyway.” John pointed out. “I’m a faster runner than both of them put together and anyway, I’ll be able to sense if something is coming.”

“John’s our early warning system.” Sherlock agreed, putting an arm round his shoulders in order to turn him in the direction of the exit. “You take John’s broom back to Gryffindor Tower, Molly. We won’t be long.” With that, he pushed firmly on John’s back and marched them off in the direction of the forest.

 


	5. Chapter Three Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifth year continued. Part 2/3.

Chapter Three Part 2/3

The forest looked a lot different in the daytime than it did at night, and John found he infinitely preferred it that way. He was hoping this wouldn’t take too long, sure that there would be some sort of raucous party going on in Gryffindor Tower to celebrate the new team; though perhaps it would be delayed until tomorrow, until the Chaser had been chosen and Sherlock could be prevailed upon to go down to the kitchens and use his influence with the House Elves to get them some food. He decided in return for this little expedition, that was what he was going to get Sherlock to do. His leg was actually worse than he had in his excitement initially thought; facts transpiring to reveal that beaters had bats for a reason and you couldn’t make such strong impact with a bludger even deliberately without sustaining some damage. His knee was incredibly sore and, he rather suspected, beginning to swell. A jolt of pain went through it every time he put his leg down, making it hard to traverse the terrain when Sherlock and Jim seemed to both have a natural aversion to using any of the scattered paths. He gritted his teeth and, saying nothing, did his best to keep up. Neither of them commented, too intent on their task to notice, or perhaps just putting it down to John’s legs being so much shorter than theirs. Unfortunately for John, after achieving a brief time of glory during the first year when he was just about the tallest, Sherlock especially had shot up and just carried on growing long after John had stopped. He was only now beginning to fill out and finish the clumsy stage of adolescence where his limbs were too long for him, making him look like a weed being buffeted by the wind whenever he got excited. Now he was more in proportion, John had to reluctantly admit, he was probably going to be the most handsome as well as the tallest. At least, he consoled himself, he was still taller than Molly.

They were getting deeper and deeper into the woods now, guided by Sherlock’s amazing internal compass as he lead them without the slightest hesitation towards where he had seen the mushrooms. John hoped they were nearly there, or else he would have to admit that he was in pain.

“Here.” Sherlock said, right on cue. They followed him through a bush and emerged into a large clearing where, just as before, the trees were thick with the enormous webs strung expertly between them. Once again, they were all spider free.

“As I thought, they must be disused.” Jim sounded distinctly disappointed. John decided not to sympathise, heading over to where Sherlock was busy at the base of a tree pulling mushrooms from the roots. His leg was seriously protesting now, screaming with pain so loudly it was drowning everything else out. John wanted to sit down while he waited, but he wasn’t sure of being able to get up again so he stood, leaning against the tree. Jim wandered over to the other side of the clearing and started examining one of the webs, following a thread as thick as his finger from its start by the trees towards the centre. Seeing them both fully occupied and distracted, John took advantage of the opportunity to bend down and rub his leg. That was when he saw them.

Hundreds of spiders were beginning to scuttle across the forest floor in a way that had never happened the last time they were here. The floor was coming alive with them, all moving together in unison, some sort of magical workings or a natural impulse pulling them forward. John nudged Sherlock with his foot.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned and John saw his eyes dart back and forth across the mass of money spiders, confused but thinking. Suddenly realisation dawned in them and he leapt to his feet. “Jim, time to go!” He roared, pulling John’s arm around his shoulders, evidently having realised that John was struggling after all. The three of them began to make with as much haste as possible towards the exit of the clearing, but this was no easy task through a sea of spiders with an injured leg. They were nearly upon the trampled down bushes where they had come in, treading now not on a moving mass of spiders but on smaller plants and long dead leaves, when something dropped down from the tree in front of them, blocking their path, sending Sherlock reeling backwards, leaving John to hold him up this time until he regained his balance.

The creature was a spider, but it was bigger than any spider John had ever seen in his life, magnified a hundred times or more. Each of its eyes was the size of John’s fist, and it was looking at them pointedly, the pincers at its mouth flexing as it considered them, hanging from a thread the size of an arm. Sherlock had let go of John and was turning frantically on the spot, but all round them the webs across the clearing were being reoccupied by enormous spiders, some no larger than dogs, some the size of a cars. John looked around too as best as his injured leg would allow and saw no way out. They were surrounded. This could end badly.

“You are lucky, young ones.” A deep, booming voice said. “For we have just returned from the hunt. My  children are not so hungry as they were.”

This voice made all the hair on the back of John’s neck stand on end, his skin prickling all over with the power of it. He was cursing himself for being so distracted by his leg. He should have sensed them coming, he should have done, if this voice had half as much magic as John could sense from it now. The air was tingling with power and the voice was followed by the emergence from the trees of the biggest spider of them all, a behemoth settling himself into the web at the top of the clearing. John wondered how he could have hidden himself in the forest or how he could have approached so silently. Sherlock had other concerns.

“John, Jim, I’m sorry.”

“Sherlock…”

“I was wrong. They don’t hunt at night.”

“Never mind that now.” John hissed at him. “How are we going to get out of here?”

“No way out.” Jim answered. “Not without a fight. They’ve got it perfectly covered.”

John nodded, feeling in his pocket for his wand.

“The bush we came in by.” Sherlock muttered. “That one’s only small.”

“Yeah, it’s only the same size as you, John.” Jim smirked, casually putting his hand into his pocket to prepare his wand too.

“It is very rude to whisper, young ones.” The spider said, sounding bizarrely like Mycroft if he was in a particularly bad and murderous mood. “It will do you no good. We will simply kill you now and save you to eat later, bound in our web.”

“That isn’t what you did to Myrtle.” Sherlock answered, defiantly. John fervently wished he would at least drop the arrogant tone of his voice when addressing a giant monster who was about to eat them. “You left her on the bathroom floor and ran away like a coward.”

One of the spider’s legs twitched in irritation. “You don’t know what you are speaking of, boy.”

“Yes, I do.” Sherlock replied. “You are the monster Hagrid released from the Chamber of Secrets twenty-four years ago that preyed upon the muggle born!”

The spider did not move. John looked at Sherlock, startled, and decided to draw his wand, Jim doing the same. John hadn’t heard anything about the Chamber of Secrets since right at the beginning of the first year, where their investigation had been prematurely halted by the death of Sherlock’s father. Sherlock must have been researching it since then on his own, and his findings had brought them here.  Very slowly and deliberately, Sherlock drew his own wand, levelling it cockily at the head of the spiders.

“We are pure blood wizards, pure bloods of the best lines!” He glanced at John, who at that moment was trying to look as self-confident as the other two, trying to emulate their natural and continual arrogance. He obviously failed, because Sherlock added: “And this muggle-born is here on business of our own! You will do your duty by Salazar Slytherin and let us go!”

For a moment, the spider did nothing. Then it did the worst thing John could possibly imagine in a situation like this. It began to laugh.

“You have been speaking to the wrong people, boy.” It chuckled. “You have been trusting to hearsay and rumour, and you have followed it to your death. Goodbye.”

This simple word seemed to have sealed their fate as all around them, the spiders began to descend.

Sherlock nodded, seeming satisfied. “I didn’t think it could have been him.” He said. “I’ve been wanting to test that theory for years.”

“You could have just asked Hagrid.” Jim pointed out. “Although I suppose he would protest the innocence of any monster he could find.”

“Now isn’t the time!” John snapped at them.

“Right you are, John.” Sherlock answered.  “Run!”

They ran headlong, wands outstretched, towards the point where they had entered in and the spider waiting there. Neither of them stopped to help John this time, but he didn’t need it. He had enough adrenalin to run through the pain, and he was the fastest of all of them; even injured, he kept up as they crossed the clearing inches ahead of their pursuers, Jim firing a stunning spell at the spider which swung, frozen, by their sides as they pushed past it, eventually being torn down and pushed aside as the rest of the spiders hurtled through.

“This way!” Sherlock shouted, veering suddenly and swerving between two moss covered trees and sliding down a sudden slope. John hadn’t been expecting the turn and followed as best as he could, but his injured leg wasn’t fast enough and twisted nastily. He still hadn’t regained his balance as he crashed between the trees and onto the slope. He hadn’t managed more than two steps before he lost his footing completely and was tumbling down the hill, barrelling Sherlock over and sending them both crashing and sliding downwards until a final, painful impact with a tree stopped them.

“John!” Sherlock was the first to stagger to his feet, half-crawling over to his friend. “Are you alright?!”

“Fine.” John struggled up too, pointing his wand up towards the summit of the hill, glad he had at least managed to keep hold of it. “You? Sherlock, where’s your wand?”

“There.” Sherlock, wiping blood from a small cut on his forehead and smearing it across his face, pointed several feet up the hill where his wand was just visible in the bracken, lying in a small rut almost exactly half way between them and the spiders who were beginning to pour over the top of the slope. “Where’s Jim?”

“Jim’s here.” Said the boy himself, sounding breathless, arriving from his own slippery descent to the left. “I assume you had a plan in bringing us down here, Sherlock, other than just making us sitting ducks.”

“The river.” Sherlock said.

“The river?” John asked.

“It’s down there.”

“Oh, dear.” Jim said, cottoning on much quicker than John did, as always. “Can you do it without a wand, Sherley, or do we get the honour?”

“I can do it.” Sherlock replied, stretching out a hand. Immediately fire sprang up in a line in front of the spiders, cutting them off, filling the air with thick smoke. The flames leapt high into the air, to the height of the trees, and were tumbling forward, consuming the forest. One or two spiders were on their side of the barricade and were now running towards them not to attack, but running for their lives. “Get down to the river, now!” Sherlock told them, and suddenly John realised why he had set the barrier back a few feet. He was going to retrieve his wand.

“Sherlock, don’t be an idiot!” John shouted, beginning to choke on the smoke, but it was too late, Sherlock was already running up the hill as Jim was pulling him down it. “Sherlock, no!” John pulled free of Jim, willing his leg to hold on long enough to follow Sherlock up the hill. Jim swore viciously.

“You are such a Gryffindor!” He spat, and tackled him to the floor. The two of them rolled again, unable to stop, the heat and the smoke burning at their necks, until suddenly, with a splash, they fell straight into the river.

For a moment, John truly was in danger of drowning. He didn’t know which way was up and their arrival in the water had been so unexpected that far from having time to take a deep breath, all the wind had been knocked out of him. Still, he could tell that the water wasn’t deep and there were bubbles coming out of his clothes, drifting up towards his feet. John flipped himself over and his head broke water. He took a deep breath just as Jim surfaced next to him.

“Where’s Sherlock?!” John shouted, spluttering between the smoke and the water running down his face. “Jim, where’s Sherlock?!”

“He better get here soon,” Jim answered, laughing hysterically. “If it gets much hotter, this water’s going to boil!”

“The other bank, get out, quickly.” John pulled himself over, relying mostly on his arms to swim, and collapsed onto the other bank, lying flat in the cool mud for less than a second before sitting up again, desperately looking for Sherlock. His friend was just visible through the smoke. He had his wand and was using it to fire small jets of water at any flames that came near him. The handful of spiders were a few feet ahead and tumbled into the water. John immediately prepared his wand, but they were being washed away. Sherlock splashed across the stream just before the fire caught him. He flopped down next to John in the mud, panting.

The wind had changed and the smoke was blowing away from them, making the air just a little bit clearer. John glared at Sherlock.

“That,” Sherlock coughed. “I admit, was a bit stupid.”

“Just a bit.” John agreed.

“Aww, I thought it was fun.” Jim added, and the three of them fell into giggles, glad to be alive. “Overkill on the flames much though, Sherlock? Seriously.”

“You try doing it without a wand.” Sherlock answered, sulkily. “It was too many or none at all.”

“We’d better put it out.” John said. “Before the whole forest goes up.”

“I put a limiter on the spell.” Sherlock shook his head. “They won’t burn for more than five minutes.”

“Did you put a limiter on how big they were, too?” John’s sarcasm did not go unnoticed.

“Good point.” Sherlock admitted, clambering to his feet and sending a stream of water over the river, starting to douse the flames. John sat up, doing his best to help when suddenly, one of the spiders staggered out of the water next to them.

“It’s alright boys.” Jim said, brandishing his wand. “Leave it to me.”

John didn’t see the spell Jim used, but he did see the spider shuddering in agony, its limbs twitching in pain.

“Jim, what are you doing?” He asked, almost frightened.

“It’s alright, I’ve got it.” Jim answered, glancing over his shoulder before returning to his work. The spider was still writhing on the bank.

“Stop it!” John said, staggering over to him and pushing his arm down. “It was half dead anyway, it wasn’t going to attack us!”

As if to prove his point, the spider got up and limped away into the forest.

“Jim.” Sherlock, having just finished dousing the flames, sounded unusually serious. “Jim, what was that? What have you done?”

And then the teachers arrived.

 

*

 

This time they were in Big Trouble, although not as much as John first feared. It turned out Sherlock’s fire, while large, had stayed more or less in the place he had set it, only damaging a small area of the forest by the hill. Although Hagrid now had his work cut out for him trying to calm down the spider community, none of them had been killed, so it was more a matter of wounded pride than actual anger. Considering they were just defending themselves anyway, John hoped it would be enough for them to escape expulsion. At least, he figured, they weren’t going to expel Jim when he had the highest marks in the year, and he himself would hopefully have the grace of good behaviour to excuse him. The case that really worried him was Sherlock’s.

They had been found in the forest by Hagrid, followed by Professors Sprout and Slughorn, who had apparently been conversing in one of the greenhouses when they had seen the smoke. Once they had checked that Sherlock and John had thoroughly extinguished the flames, they heard enough of the story to hear that they had been chased by the spiders before Hagrid went off to smooth things over and the other two took the boys back to the castle. John, to his shame, found he had made his knee so much worse that he could now barely walk, and ended up holding onto Professor Sprout. All three of them were taken up to the hospital ward, where their injuries and burns and cuts and scrapes were tutted over yet mended within half an hour; all of them being forced to swallow a pastille that made them belch all the smoke out of their lungs. Once repaired, they were sent down to Professor McGonagall’s office.

As if to remind them that they really were in Big Trouble, each of their heads of house was there; Professor McGonagall herself, Professor Slughorn and the tiny Professor Flitwick. John wondered what Flitwick in particular would do. He had only begun as the head of Ravenclaw house that year, after the retirement of the hard-pressed Professor Melas, and this was the first time he had really come up against a serious misdemeanour of Sherlock’s. His face, however, remained impassive as McGonagall coldly asked what they were doing, and Jim launched into a charming retelling of the anecdote; all truthful and accurate, but told in such a winning way that he even got a chuckle off Professor Slughorn at one point, quickly squashed by a look from McGonagall. But he left out the part where he had cursed the spider on the bank. John didn’t know what curse that was, but he remembered the spider’s pain and how unnecessary it had been. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Sherlock, but his friend was gazing stonily at the wall with his usual glare.

“That will do, thank you, Moriarty.” McGonagall said curtly, when Jim had finished his tale and was just beginning to embellish it with a dramatic plea for forgiveness. “The three of you can go and wait outside while we decide what to do with you.”

They waited. Even Sherlock, for once, didn’t wander off. Jim attempted to make a few jokes about their situation, trying to coax them into talking, but Sherlock wasn’t listening and John was unresponsive, so in the end he sat in a dark mood. Finally, Jim was asked to go with an apologetic Slughorn to his office and Sherlock with Flitwick to his. Clearly they were to be sentenced separately. John wondered how Flitwick would get on going head-to-head with Sherlock, but then turned his mind to his own situation, heading into Professor McGonagall’s office with a heavy heart.

“Have you anything to say for yourself?” She asked.

“Not really.” John replied, then hastily realising his mistake, rushed to correct it. “I mean, I don’t think I can make excuses. I’m really sorry.”

“As you should be.” She sniffed, waving at him to sit down. “Do you have any idea of the danger you were in? The three of you could well have met an untimely end and you would have no-one to blame but yourselves. Mushrooms! What were you thinking? If you were thinking at all, which at the moment, Watson, I rather doubt.” She took a deep breath, calming her nerves. “You understand that the punishment you receive will be severe.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“I had half a mind to take you straight off the Quidditch Team, Watson, and I would have done if there could have been any equivalent punishment for Moriarty. Think yourself lucky Professor Slughorn assured me James had no extra-curricular activities to revoke at all.”

“What about Sherlock?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. The way she had mentioned Jim and not Sherlock singled him out and made John worried on his friend’s behalf. McGonagall’s response didn’t help matters.

“Mr Holmes talked you both into it and will be dealt with accordingly.” She said, briskly. “We will focus on you, Mr Watson. I don’t like taking points from my own house, but I will deduct a hundred points from Gryffindor. I hope to see you working hard to earn them back the rest of the year.”

“Yes, Professor.” John answered, thinking he had got off rather lightly.

“Furthermore,” She continued. “Detention. One month. No arguments.”

“No, Professor.”

“Moreover, Watson, seeing as the three of you are clearly such a bad influence on one another, for that month I will insist on you being separated in your classes and you will all sit at the tables of your own house for meals.”

“You can’t!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t. I’m sorry, Professor, I just mean, you can’t. Sherlock won’t eat. I mean, he actually won’t eat. He only averages ten or eleven meals a week as it is, and that’s with Molly bullying him into it. Please, you can’t.”

“It isn’t up to you what I can and can’t do, Mr Watson!” She snapped, nostrils flaring. “Mr Holmes will just have to learn how to take care of himself, or he can starve. Rest assured if he sets one foot towards the Gryffindor table or dormitories for the next month, he will be expelled. He is on his last chance.”

“Oh… you know about him coming to Gryffindor Tower?”

“Of course I do, Watson, I’m not stupid.” She said, fiercely. “I’ve overlooked it this long because it seems pointless to try and stop him, and there’s nothing wrong necessarily with inter-house friendships; but as those friendships are so obviously leading you all astray, I think some observation of the boundaries is quite in order. Perhaps at the end of the month you’ll have more respect for the rules.” She shot him a piercing look, as if daring him to find out what would happen if he didn’t. John realised it was pointless to argue any further.

“Yes, Professor.”

“I will, of course, be writing to your mother about this.”

“Yes, Professor. Sorry.”

“You’re a good boy at heart, John.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Why don’t you try leading those two out of mischief instead of letting them pull you into it?”

“I’ll try, Professor.”

“See that you do. Off you go.”

John stood, feeling pretty depressed, wondering how he was going to explain this to Molly. And what would his mother think? He had never been guilty of a severe enough misdemeanour to get a letter sent home before, it would break her heart. Then, a horrible thought occurred to him. He froze.

“Is there something else you wish to say, Watson?” Professor McGonagall asked briskly.

“Um, no, it’s just…”

“Yes?”

“Professor,” he said, hesitatingly. “I know I’m asking a lot, but would you mind putting off sending the letter home just till Monday?”

“Your punishment doesn’t happen at your convenience, Watson!”

“I know, I know, it’s just, my mom will be really upset and-”

“I am not to blame for that.”

“No, no, I know, I just mean… Professor, my mom wrote to me this morning and told me she’s pregnant again. With my stepdad. And I haven’t written back yet. So if she gets your letter first, she’s going to think I did this to rebel, because I’m upset about it.”

“Why on earth would she think that?”

John swallowed hard. “Because I am upset about it.”

There was silence. Professor McGonagall sat back in her chair, thinking about it. John decided to further plea his case.

“That’s not why I went crazy in the woods, I’m not trying to make excuses or anything, that was just Sherlock, but… please, Professor, just give me time to send her a letter first. I promise I won’t say anything about this, I’ll just say… congratulations.”

“Oh, very well.” The Professor said, irritably, though John was sure her face had softened slightly. “But not till Monday. Send your letter this afternoon and I’ll write first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks, Professor.”

“A baby being born is a joyous occasion, Watson.” She said, sternly. “And your mother will need your support.”

“Yes, Professor. I know.”

She considered him, then nodded curtly. “Alright then. Off you go.”

Jim was waiting for him outside, having got away first. It didn’t surprise John, Slughorn was easily the softest touch and Jim was one of his favourites; Slughorn had probably been bullied into agreeing to anything worse than detention for them. Still, for all his apologies, he had informed Jim of the same punishments as McGonagall had given to John. Jim was furious, his face twisted into a scowl.

“It’s just a joke! Why can’t we sit where we want to like we’ve always done?!”

“In fairness, Jim, we did just burn down half the Forbidden Forest.”

“Yeah, because we were about to be eaten! If you really think about it the only thing we’ve _really_ done is go out of bounds, and we’ve only ever had a detention for that! That’s the problem with this place! Nobody _thinks_!” He was so enraged, that his cry echoed down the corridor. John was sure McGonagall would hear it in her office some way behind him, and shushed him.  “It’s true.” Jim said, petulantly, but quiet now. “You know Sherlock’s not going to stick to this.”

“He’ll have to.” John replied. “McGonagall told me he’s this close to being expelled.” He indicated a not very great distance with his fingers. Jim looked at it in concern.

“Oh, no. Slughorn said something about him being the ringleader too. What do you think they’re doing to him?”

“Well, at least we know he isn’t expelled.” This was the most comforting thing John could think of.

“Yet.” Jim added glumly, and they continued on to Flitwick’s office, where they found the door shut tightly, and voices inside, too low to be heard no matter how hard they tried. The door, Jim knew from experience, would repel any charms attempting to make the conversation inside audible. They had no choice but to wait.

“This is going to kill Molly.” Jim sighed, running his hands through his hair in frustration as he leant back against the wall. “It’s so unfair! She’s being punished too without doing anything!”

John privately agreed. He knew Jim was right, she would miss having the two of them there at meals. He couldn’t stand to think of her disappointment. “It’s only for a month. We’ll do it. And we can still meet outside and stuff, after we’ve eaten.”

“Only a month?” Jim laughed. “If Sherlock hasn’t starved to death or Molly hasn’t forgotten all about us by then. It’s alright for you, though, isn’t it, Johnny-Boy? You can still sit by _her_. I’ll have to take dinner with the slimy, slimy Slytherins. They make me sick, the lot of them! So obsessed with blood purity and all none of them realise what it can actually _do_.”

“What do you mean, what pure bloods can do?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Magic’s more concentrated in the blood. Purer the blood, the greater your raw power.”

“Excuse me?” John stood up straighter, slightly offended, not sure what he was hearing.

“Oh, don’t get uppity John, you know it’s true.” Jim groaned. “Sherlock purest-of-the-pure-bloods Holmes in there just summoned flames thirty feet tall without even using a wand.”

“That’s because his magic is out of control without using one!”

“Yeah, and you couldn’t summon so much as the tiniest twinkle without yours.” Jim hissed, then turned away, taking a step down the hall. “Arrgh, it’s this place, John, this place! That’s why you can’t, you know, they just clamp down on power, all this _control_ , it’s just binding us to their stupid rules! And these rules are the stupidest of all! What right do they have to decide who I eat dinner with?! If we had any sense, we’d go, get Molly, and just walk out right now. Just walk the hell out of this place.” Rage spent, he sank back against the wall, folding his arms.

“Jim, just calm down.” John told him. “We did something wrong and they’re punishing us. I don’t like it either but there’s not much we can do about it and it’s not just here, that’s how every school works. So for goodness sake, put a sock in it.”

Jim glared and didn’t say another word.

They had been waiting about quarter of an hour when Sherlock finally emerged, with a strange expression on his face. He leant against the door, shutting it, and looking at them.

“What are they going to do to you?” Jim asked.

“Oh… letter home, detention, and I’m not allowed at Gryffindor table or tower for the next month.”

“Same as us.” John nodded. “So what took so long? You were in there ages!”

“Throwing his weight around, was he?” Jim snorted. “Trying to prove he was capable of being head of house?”

“No.” Sherlock glanced back at the closed door with the same unusual expression. “…he was interested in my work.”

“What?” John asked.

“I was telling him about my research into the processes of muggle chemistry being used to improve potions. If we can distil potions ingredients down to the essential elements that work the magic then-”

 “Yes, yes, we know.” John hastened him on. “What did he say about it?”

“He gave me a free access pass for the restricted section of the library and said he was going to arrange with Professor Slughorn to let me use the potions room and stores.” Sherlock said slowly. “He thinks Dumbledore will want to encourage the research. He said the school will support me so there’s no need for any more sneaking off into the forest.”

“Well, that takes all the fun out of it.” Jim joked, but Sherlock didn’t reply, glancing back at the door again. John suddenly realised the odd expression on his face was simply respect for the new head of Ravenclaw house.

 

*

 

 Molly was upset, as they had all predicted, and she reprimanded them all more than once. However, they soon got into a routine of eating as quickly as they could and then meeting by a particular tree on the side of the lake, watching the baby squid lazily splashing around. It was inconvenient, but they could make it work. Their missing friends were more noticeable in the evenings, particularly when Sherlock was absent from the Gryffindor common room.  John had had a quiet word with the Fat Lady and begged her not to let his friend in, even if he worked out the correct password as he always did and no matter how charming he was. When he had impressed upon her how Sherlock would risk expulsion if he entered in the next four weeks, the Fat Lady had finally tearfully agreed and Sherlock had not been seen in the common room ever since their punishment was issued.

John kept his head down, attended his detentions quietly and didn’t complain about having to move seats in lessons. The month itself was flying by quicker than he had dared hope. Between detention, Quidditch practice, the incredible amount of homework that was dumped on fifth years and the occasional half-hearted flick through an O-level text book when he felt guilty of neglect, John barely had time to feel the punishment. By far the hardest thing was the letter home. Here John felt he had drawn the short straw. Jim had received a short and disapproving note from his father, but that simply concluded indifferently that ‘boys would be boys’ and talked in the main about the changeable health of his great-grandfather. Sherlock’s mother, the perpetual traveller, was unlikely to have ever received the letter and less likely to have actually read it. Even if she had, she probably would have just flown into a rage at the school for allowing her baby to put himself in danger, apparently the kind of mother who was firmly convinced of the infallibility of their child. The most likely source of punishment or at least a lecture for Sherlock was from Mycroft, but the elder Holmes was so busy at the ministry at that time that, if he had seen the letter he had probably done no more than shake his head in exasperation and discard it. John by far came off the worse, because his mother, far from being angry, was reproachful of his conduct and was convinced he was unhappy about something and not telling her, which persuaded her, in spite of the very happy and joyful letter she had received the day before, he considered her a traitor for getting pregnant by Dean. The guilt and worry this reply occasioned in John affected him more than her anger could ever had done, and he swore from then on to stay on the straight and narrow as much as being friends with Sherlock could allow.

Sherlock himself was almost as worried about his mother’s displeasure as John himself. Although he wouldn’t admit it, by his indirect questions, John realised he feared that she was angry, that his standing invitation to spend Christmas with them would be revoked, or that she would stop sending him notes at the bottom of John’s letters telling him what had happened in that week’s episode of _Thunderbirds_. Sherlock had caught an episode or two at their house the previous year and enjoyed them so much that, on finding they were being repeated, Mrs Watson had promised to faithfully watch them and keep him updated on the plots and the machinery. No such synopsis being included in her reproach to John, Sherlock seemed concerned he would lose them forever; but the following week a bumper issue arrived, detailing two episodes, John having guessed at Sherlock’s secret fears had taken the liberty of telling his mother how sorry Sherlock was and so he was warmly reassured of both his forgiveness and his place at Christmas lunch. Their month of punishment, therefore, passed with less hardship than John might have feared, and the rest of term flew by with equal speed, so that before they knew it, it was Christmas day and Sherlock was taking up his promised place. It was a little more subdued than usual, with Sherlock and Dean still wary of each other, and Mycroft so caught up at work so that by the time he finally arrived and had removed his green silk gloves and issued apologies, he just had time to collapse into a chair for the start of the Queen’s speech, which to everyone’s great surprise he slept straight through. Sherlock informed them that his brother had barely been home at all, everyone in a fluster at the ministry about emerging rumours of some trouble brewing out in Albania and Mycroft, being in his brother’s estimations “habitually incredibly lazy” was struggling to keep up with the physical demands of constant work. Mrs Hudson huffed and clucked and fussed about him, but seemed pleased with Sherlock’s evaluation of her growing pregnancy- “My goodness, you’re enormous, Mrs Watson!”- and as always treated the Holmes boys with as much affection as if they had been her own.  Mycroft woke up in time for pudding and supper, where, in sudden good humour, he and Sherlock told them tales of some of their grandmother’s more interesting cases; the baby kicked when John put his hand on his mother’s stomach and for the first time he thought it might not be completely a bad thing; and Dean had bought tickets for him and John to see the last test match of the Ashes at the Oval at the end of August, which baffled Sherlock but pleased John a great deal. All in all, it was a good Christmas and John returned to Hogwarts ready for the challenges of a new term.

 

*

 

 

Challenges there certainly were. As they entered the second term their workload got even heavier as their teachers constantly reminded them that the exams were only a few months away, on top of which the Quidditch season was in full swing, and John was training hard; giving Eris no reason to regret her decision and causing McGonagall to look rather pleased with herself every time a well-aimed bludger helped Gryffindor to victory. Sometimes John felt so busy his head span, and his O-level text books would have simply lain under his bed covered in dust had Sherlock not commandeered them for his personal reference. They had been reunited at the Gryffindor table and Sherlock was once again a common sight in the dormitory, which was a good thing, because otherwise, there was no doubt they would hardly have seen each other, weighed down with work as they were. They saw even less of Jim, who had never been in the habit of coming up to Gryffindor Tower with them, and was now usually busy with work of his own or, more often, sitting with Molly or John helping them with theirs. Sherlock, predictably, didn’t seem to care in the slightest about the looming examinations, his soul focus being on his researches into combining potions and chemistry. Flitwick had challenged him to have a finished paper by the time he left Hogwarts. Sherlock hoped to do it by the end of the year, and John hoped with him, because he knew otherwise Sherlock would get bored of it and give up. Still, it certainly was quieter in Gryffindor tower when Sherlock was scratching away with a stolen biro then with a violin bow.

So busy were they that certain subjects were always doomed to fall by the wayside. John had expected Muggle Studies to be an easy class, but in reality, it plunged him into endless confusion and it was usually Jim helping him instead of the other way round. It was hard to answer the question ‘ _Discuss the Muggle love of electricity with particular reference to the phenomenon of ‘Fairy Lights’ over the Christmas period (7 marks)’_ when you could think of no reason other than convenience and decoration. Jim was much better at memorising the text book answers, and it had become something of a catchphrase for him to throw up his hands in impatience and cry “It doesn’t matter if it’s _right_ , John, just write it down!”.

Muggle Studies turning out to be disappointingly difficult, consisting mostly of memorising incorrect interpretations of things he had been doing and using his entire life, it was in Divination that John allowed himself to slack off. The room was always almost unbearably warm, but it made a nice change from the plummeting temperatures that occupied a draughty castle in January. In truth, he still had yet to see a single thing in the mists of the crystal ball or in the soggy left over tea leaves, or in the line of Molly’s palm or in his dreams. In fact, he strongly suspected that Sherlock was correct and that Fortune Telling was as much as a sham in the wizarding world as it was in the muggle one. However, he was cultivating something of a reputation as a seer because every time he was called upon to make a prediction he would pretend to look into the crystal ball or examine the tea leaves, but then close his eyes and imagine himself walking through the school corridors. His sixth sense, his magical instinct, seemed to be stimulated by the incenses in the room and would always tug him in the right direction, bringing him to a window that would be broken later in the day, or find the missing item of a fellow student, or show him who was going to receive a letter. It was all very minor and never far in the future, but it was sufficient to impress his teacher and a number of the Ravenclaw girls in his class, who seemed to admire the aura of mystery it gave him. John, when he noticed them watching, would always sit up very straight and do his best to look enigmatic, until Molly giggled at him and he would abandon the attempt.

There was only one time in his life when John thought, an unacknowledged thought in the back of his mind, that he might have made a true prophecy, and that was during a lesson towards the end of January in the fifth year. He didn’t know how it happened, the day was like any other and so was the lesson, except perhaps that he had been a little more tired and paying a little less attention than usual, thinking about nothing in particular, wondering if anyone would notice if he fell asleep here, at this tiny little table tucked into the back corner with Molly. At first he thought he was falling asleep, because all he could think about were green silk gloves, in the way that a dream will sometimes invade a mind just before it completely crosses the border into sleep. The gloves were going through papers in the drawer of a heavy oak desk, and, after opening the drawer experimentally once or twice, carefully emptied it out and scrabbling at the corner of the drawer, pulled up a lid, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside it was a folded piece of parchment.

The man straightened up, and John realised with some disgust that he was dreaming about Mycroft. Dreaming about him with the sound turned right down, apparently, because he could hear someone muttering and he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Mycroft unfolded the parchment onto the desk and John could just see that it was a map of some kind of forest, marked in a certain place with a symbol he couldn’t quite make out before his view shifted. For a time, he watched Mycroft’s back as the man unrolled some thin paper, laid it over the map, and began to make a copy, precisely and methodically. Suddenly, someone came into the room. Mycroft looked up, startled, and then, smiling in a knowing way that was so like his brother, very deliberately folded up the copy and put it into his pocket.

“Gentlemen.” He said, magnanimously, “Welcome home.”, and then John woke up.

Molly was looking at him, face pale and fearful. “John, are you alright?” She asked, obviously not for the first time.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. I just nodded off, that’s all.” John smiled reassuringly, and stretched his arms as if he was yawning.

“But you were talking.” She sounded upset. “You were saying such awful things… and in a really strange voice… Such awful things.”

“What awful things?” John asked. “What was I saying?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t remember…”

“Molly!”

“Just… just, you were talking about a snake being killed.”

“What?”

“I don’t know! You just said the snake would be pinned down and its neck would be broken and there would be blood… you said ‘blood will cover the wood’. You kept saying, ‘blood will cover the skull in the wood’. John, what did you mean?”

“Nothing.” John told her. “Nothing, just a nightmare. It’s nothing. I always talk in my sleep.”

“John…” Molly wasn’t convinced.

“Molly, I’m fine, really. Look, did anyone else hear?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “We were supposed to be chanting. I didn’t notice myself at first.”

“Alright. Alright.” John nodded. He didn’t like to admit it, but he was rattled; and he knew he had to do something. “Alright, Molly, can you write down what I said?”

“What? But I thought it was just a bad dream…”

“It was, yeah, but still… you know, just out of interest.” He started throwing his stuff into his bag.

“Well, I’ll try, but I’m not sure-”

“Thanks, good girl. Just… I’m going to go. Alright? I’ll go take a nap or something. Tell the Professor I don’t feel well.”

“What? John-” Molly’s concern  was met only with the sound of the trapdoor swinging shut, leaving her to explain to their teacher as best she could about John not feeling well. She omitted to mention the ‘bad dream’ and the things John had said. She wanted to believe that was all it was, but she had never seen John that rattled before and, in spite of what Sherlock frequently told her, Molly Hooper was not stupid.

 

*

 

 

John knew this was Sherlock’s free period and he also knew exactly where he would be; in his cubby hole in an archway at the back of the potions classroom, trying by a combination of magic and science to work out exactly what _part_ of the make up of a Joberknoll feather made it useful in memory potions, and which in truth serums. John personally thought Sherlock Holmes with access to improved truth serums may not be a great thing for the world, but that wasn’t his priority today. He was thankful that when he peered round into the dungeon there didn’t seem to be a class in progress, just Sherlock’s back, bent over his work bench.

“Sherlock.” He said, surprised to hear a slight catch in his breath from his hurry down through the castle.

“Ah, John.” Sherlock didn’t so much as turn around, filling a vial from his potion and holding it up to the light before putting a stopper in it and noting it down. “Do you have one of those microscoops in your house? The magnifying glass just isn’t enough for my purposes, but Professor Dumbledore insists there’s nothing we can do to make a microscoop work here; too much magic in the air, apparently.”

“What? No.” For John, to have a question so much outside of his current thought process suddenly thrown at him was quite confusing. “No, they cost hundreds. And it’s micro _scope_.”

Sherlock tutted. “How am I supposed to make any progress with no data?!”

“Look, never mind that now! Sherlock, have you heard from Mycroft lately?”

 Finally, something in his tone made Sherlock look up and glance him up and down.

“You’ve made a prophecy?” He asked, sounding interested in spite of himself. “Concerning my brother?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” John said, hastily. “I just… I… I had this dream.”

“A dream.” Sherlock seemed less impressed. “About… Mycroft.”

“Not like that!” John shouted. “It was… he was looking through this desk. This really old looking oak desk. He was going through the papers in the drawer, he was looking at a map, copying it, and then some men came in so he put it in his pocket. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but… my instincts were going crazy, Sherlock. I think… I think something bad happened.”

“So now you’re saying it wasn’t a dream?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“You aren’t usually this indecisive, John.” Sherlock turned back to his experiment, emptying his cauldron with a flick of his wand and beginning to weigh some powder. “Why don’t you go and flip a coin a few times and then come back to me with the result?”

“This isn’t funny, Sherlock!” John pulled the powder away from him. “I know you look down on prophecies and predictions and maybe you’re right, but you’ve trusted my instincts before, so are you really going to risk ignoring it now?!”

“John.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I do believe you. But the desk you described, tell me, did you notice whether it had a green felt top?”

“Well, yeah, it did, but how did you-”

“The desks at the Ministry are all like that. Standard issue.” Sherlock answered. “I have every faith in your magical instincts, John, but they always deal with the here and now. In spite of your panic, I don’t think you’ve seen anything more remarkable than a sneaky peek at what Mycroft is doing at work today.”

“No.” John shook his head. “I don’t think it was his desk, Sherlock. He was wearing gloves and he was going through the papers like he couldn’t find what he was looking for. He found a secret compartment in the end, that’s where he got the map from. And then someone interrupted him, I mean, they caught him. And he said ‘welcome home’, it can’t have been at the ministry.”

“It’s called irony John, perhaps you’ve heard of it? Mycroft is fond of his idioms.”

“Sherlock! Wherever it was, I’m telling you, I don’t think it was his desk!”

Sherlock hesitated slightly, then, seeming resolved, asked, “John, can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

“Mycroft’s role at the Ministry is more than it first appears.” Sherlock said, delicately. “It’s true that most of his job is as the deputy minister for the Department of International Cooperation, and he does fulfil all the duties of that role. But he’s also more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“My brother has a brain like a bottomless pit. He can store almost any fact in his memory no matter how inane or trivial it is.” Sherlock sounded a touch resentful. Given that he knew Sherlock’s own mind had a bottomless pit of its own, in spite of his constant assertion that he filled it only with things worth knowing, John was slightly concerned at the idea of someone having even more data at their disposal. “That means he has been very useful to the ministry in being the spider at the centre of their web, of keeping track of everything that’s going on and allying one department’s decision to another. Whenever they’re deciding policy, Mycroft gets all the facts and he ties them together. They only ever disagreed with his decision once.”

“What happened?”

“There were three weeks of protests against the policy and threats to expose us to the muggles.” Sherlock grinned.

“I remember that! Are you seriously telling me Mycroft could have stopped it?”

“Yes. They’ve always listened to him since and it has swollen his head immeasurably.” Sherlock sighed. “Anyway. The point is, Mycroft may well have been going through someone else’s desk if that person had come under some suspicion. He’s quite within his rights to do it and the ministry will back him. So there’s no cause for concern.”

“Right.” John said, relieved but feeling a little silly now. “But…”

“What else?”

“It’s just… Molly said I was saying strange things, in a strange voice.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, blood in the woods and something about a snake… she’s going to write it out.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock said, considering him in a way that made John feel a little uncomfortable.

“Do you think it’s important?” John asked.

“No.”

“Right.” John said again. “Well, I’ll just go then.”

No reply, his friend was already busying himself again about his experiments. Annoyed, John started to go.

“John.” Sherlock said, not looking up. “I’ll write to him.”

John nodded and left, feeling a little reassured.

                Mycroft’s reply, when it came the next morning, was curt and to the point:

                _Please thank John for his concern and tell him that I am perfectly well. I would also advise that he concentrates on his studies rather than prying into the affairs of others.-M_

                “Oh, you’ve puffed him up.” Sherlock laughed. “He’s all injured pride now, in case you saw something you shouldn’t.”

                “It’s not like I did it on purpose.” John answered, feeling rather embarrassed to have thought that he was seeing the future when Mycroft’s affronted tone rather suggested he had been seeing present events, albeit a hundred miles away.

                “But what about those things you said?” Molly asked, uneasily. “I mean, if you were just watching him at work, what did they mean?”

                “Let’s have another look.” Jim suggested, having taken to the mystery more than any of them. Molly pulled the scrap of parchment out of her bag that she had tried to reproduce John’s words onto.

                “I can’t remember everything, I’m sorry.” She apologised as she always did. “But I did my best…”

                The four of them looked down at the paper, which was covered in scribbling and crossings out, but finally read:

 

 

_\-----reckoning day(?)_

_And blood will cover the --- (wood?)_

_The snake will turn tail (?) to bite the skull/score_

_And his blood will cover the wood_

_And the snake will be pinned to the board_

_And blood will cover the wood_

_And blood will cover the skull in the wood_

_And the blood of the snake snaps the neck of the ---_

_And blood will cover the snake and the skull in the wood_

                “I think, given everything else, we can assume that it’s ‘skull’ he said, not ‘score’.” Jim said, taking a quill and making the appropriate alteration. “Bit morbid, aren’t you, Johnny-boy?”

                “I didn’t do it on purpose.” John said, through gritted teeth. “Look, we know Mycroft is alright, so this doesn’t mean anything.” He tried to pull the parchment away, but was stopped by Sherlock’s hand on it.

                “I’m more trying to work out this part.” He said, pointing towards the bottom. “Which neck? Whose neck?”

                “I don’t know,” Molly said, distressed. “I was trying to wake him up, I wasn’t listening.”

                “And you missed the start, too.” Sherlock scowled. “It’s not a very good show, Molly.”

                “I was worried! I didn’t know I would have to remember it!”

                “Wait,” John interrupted. “Sherlock, are you taking this seriously? I mean, you think this is going to happen?”

                “I think it’s a load of nonsense.” Sherlock answered. “Mycroft’s fine and the Ministry is full of prophecies that never came true. Neither did this one, but it probably was a prophecy of some kind.”

                John looked at him, stunned.

                “Aww, does that scare you?” Jim teased, reaching over to ruffle his short hair. “Our little seer is all grown up.”

                “I’m not a seer.” John replied, irritated, and threw his hand off.

                “No, you aren’t.” Sherlock agreed. “But for about five minutes yesterday, you were.”

                “But, seeing as nothing happened, obviously not a very good one.” Jim added, helpfully.

 

*

 

 

                The team groaned as one unit.

“Don’t be like that!” Eris scolded them. “Save your bloody moaning for if we lose! We’d only have had to take ‘em on in the final anyway, so what if it’s a match sooner? We can bloody well take them!”

It was mid-March and the draws had just been made for the semi-finals of the Quidditch cup. Eris had drawn for the Gryffindors and had just broken the news that they would be playing Hufflepuff. For the Gryffindors, playing against Hufflepuff essentially meant that they were going to be finish in last place instead of first or second. While they could beat Slytherin easily and usually come out ahead of the Ravenclaw team, the Hufflepuffs were far and away the best team. Hufflepuff would beat them and they would score so few points against them that both the other teams would overtake them in the overall rankings. This was the worst thing that could have happened in terms of the draw.

“I’m telling you, we can bloody well take them as long as you lot put some bloody effort in!” Eris insisted. “I don’t care how good their bloody seeker is, Franklin is bloody well better, and our keeper is bloody well better than their chasers and we chasers are better than their bloody keeper and our bloody beaters are bloody well bloody better than their bloody ones!”

John had noticed Eris’ foul mouth tended to get even worse the more stressed she became. That, more than anything, confirmed that they were doomed; but Eris subjected them all to intense training between the draw and the match anyway, as much as she could manage as the other teams scuffled to get practise time on the pitch too. Their only hope, they knew, was to catch the Snitch before Hufflepuff scored too many times. If they could catch the Snitch and Hufflepuff hadn’t scored more than once, then they would be going into the final with a strong points total and even a chance of winning the cup. It was a tiny chance. Not only were the Hufflepuff Chasers incredibly skilled, their Seeker had never failed to catch the Snitch. Her name was Winifred Reeves, she was only just in second year, but she sped round the pitch like a bullet. She was a tiny, mousy looking girl who wore her hair in pigtails and, when she had been sorted the year before, had reminded them all irresistibly of the time when Molly had sat there, scared to death that the hat was going to take as long for her as it had for Sherlock. Now Reeves was playing Quidditch and no-one could doubt she was a prodigy. She held the record for the quickest capture of a snitch in Hogwarts history, having caught it after just seven seconds in the previous match against Ravenclaw. If beating Reeves to the snitch was their only hope, it may as well be said that they had no hope at all. Franklin was beaten down with the weight of the pressure on him, though Eris was being as tough on all of them, reminding the Chasers and keeper that Hufflepuff couldn’t be allowed to get more than ten points ahead, telling John and Sebastian that it was their job to help prevent goals but most of all to keep Reeves from the snitch. The pressure was on, and the mood was low.

“Is it the Hufflepuff match today?” Sherlock asked, on the morning of the match.

“Yes, Sherlock, of course it is.”

“I thought it must be from your violent attack on those sausages.”

“I’m not attacking them, Sherlock, I’m cutting them.”

“Hacking them.”

“Yes, alright, hacking them. And in a minute I’m going to be shoving them right up your nose.”

Sherlock sniffed. “You’re a little tense.”

“Amazing deduction, Sherlock.”

“It’s largely down to the seekers.” Sherlock told him. “It’s out of your hands anyway.” And that was all the comfort John was likely to get. He continued to eat as savagely as before.

To everyone’s surprise, Sherlock had built a minimal interest in Quidditch ever since he had been forced to watch John try out. It was true he only ever attended the Gryffindor matches and still thought most of the rules were stupid, but it was a start. He would be attending the match that day along with the others and accompanied them and John down to the pitch.

“Watson.” It was the habit in the team, following the example of their captain, to call each other solely by surname. John, who was mid-way through changing, pulled his robes over his head and turned to see Sebastian.

“Hey, Moran. Ready?”                                                                                                                                          

“Do you think we could do this?” He handed over a piece of parchment. John unfolded it to find a simple tactical diagram. Simple but potentially brilliant.

“I think we could.” He answered, scanning it over again to make sure he understood it. “Do you think we should?”

“Reeves can’t catch the snitch.” Sebastian answered with a shrug.

“Alright.” John nodded, taking up his broom. “We’ll try it.”

Moments later they were on the pitch and in the air. The match had begun. It felt good to be in the air. The weather conditions were as good as they could have wished for, the sky blue with a few clouds scuttling across it and a light breeze to keep it cool, without interfering with flying. John felt his concentration and his focus honing in on what he had to do, tuning out the sounds of the crowds and even his other players; all except Sebastian, who within a few seconds of play had blocked a bludger aimed at Eris and sent it towards John. John knew what he had to do, he had already located Winifred speeding along just behind his left shoulder, but it was a long journey for Sebastian; would he be there in time? He had to trust his team mate, and stick to the plan. He spun in the air, hitting the bludger off behind him.

“Watson aiming for Reeves there, but it’s a clear miss- wait!” John had ignored the commentator, immediately speeding off, drawing level with Winifred’s right hand side. Sebastian had made it to her left, just ahead of her, in time to connect with the bludger and send it back towards John, who immediately sent it back.

“And it’s a risky play from the Gryffindor beaters, favoured by theEgyptian national team of course; they’re focusing just on one player, they are trapping her in place, Reeve can’t get around them- outstanding play! Oh, but Moritz takes one to the gut! That’s the risk of course, the other bludger is still doing its work- but what skill, what control from the Gryffindor beaters!”

John wasn’t listening to the praise they were getting from the commentary. The technique was taking all his concentration. He had to anticipate Moran’s shots, not to mention the randomness of the bludger itself, which liked to veer off target. There was the flying as well of course, and they were hard put to keep up with the tiny Hufflepuff seeker. Then there was Reeves herself, who, finding her progress so slow and hampered was now biting her lip, determined to break through. She was going faster and the bludger was now continually hitting her broomstick, instead of passing in front of her as a block, spinning her helplessly every time she straightened up.

“Oh, Reeves is starting to look in trouble there-”

John knew he should carry on. One missed shot in the volley and the bludger would get away from them and so would the seeker and the game would be over in moments. But something about this seemed so wrong. He risked a glance over at the Gryffindor seeker, who was going round and round the stadium, finding nothing. He cursed and caught the bludger just in time to send it back to Moran, narrowly missing Reeves, but Moran immediately sent it back, grazing Reeves’ head. Hearing her yelp in pain was enough for John, and he hit the bludger away over the field in another direction. Reeves looked at him in surprise, grinned mischievously and sped away. John cursed. He had been too soft hearted and the Hufflepuffs would undoubtedly win. He wasn’t going to be popular tonight.

“And that’s the famed nobility of the Gryffindors, Watson let her go, even though if her history is anything to go by it spells doom for the Gryffindors-” The commentator’s praise was doing little to make John feel better, although when he looked over at Moran, the other beater nodded and shrugged, indicating, it seemed, that he didn’t object. John moved to go and stop a bludger from connecting with Eris, their best chaser and only real hope of scoring against the Hufflepuffs. He was rewarded; they finally scored. If only their seeker could get hold of the snitch now, then all would be well. Richards had been on fire, stopping every shot, though only by the tips of his fingers, and John knew he was tiring, sending a bludger down to knock the quaffle off course just before it would surely have gone through the middle hoop, given that Richards had moved to guard the left. Richards nodded his thanks, looking exhausted. Gryffindor needed to capture the snitch, and now.

John saw it. The snitch was right by him, flying alongside. He glanced around. The Gryffindor seeker was in completely the wrong place, on the other side of the pitch. But Reeves had seen it and was flying impossibly fast towards John. He couldn’t let her capture it, but there was no nearby bludger available, so John did the only thing he could think of. He hit the snitch away with his bat.

“What was that?!” The commentator howled. “The Gryffindor Beater just hit the snitch over to his team’s seeker! Surely that’s a foul- but, no, apparently there are only rules against hitting players or brooms, not the other balls!”

“Of course not.” John muttered, seeing as he and Moran were famously the only ones on the team to actually have read the rule book, the others favouring the learn-by-doing approach.

“If the Gryffindor seeker can’t get this now then- but wait! It Reeves! Look at her go! The Hufflepuff seeker speeds up the pitch! But too late, it’s Gryffindor- fumble! Now Hufflepuff- Gryffindor- Reeves! Reeves has the snitch and it’s victory to Hufflepuff! Hufflepuff wins! But what a game, Gryffindor! I think both teams can go back to their common rooms with their heads held high today…”

They didn’t, of course. None of them, not even Eris, could claim that Hufflepuff hadn’t deserved the victory. Gryffindor had flown better than they ever had before, played better, but Hufflepuff were just a little better than their best efforts. The rest of Gryffindor knew it, and when they got back to the common room had clapped and congratulated them like heroes, even Eris gathered her team together and told them “All of you did bloody brilliant today. Moritz, Lawrence, you were bloody outstanding, I couldn’t ask for bloody better.  Franklin, don’t take it too hard mate, you were bloody close and that little whippet of theirs flies like a bloody impossibility. Richards, I don’t know how you stopped half those bloody shots but it was bloody amazing; same goes for you two, Watson, Moran; nice work with the snitch too, Watson. Bloody good work, everyone. I’m bloody proud of you all, regardless.” These were very nice words, of course, but they had only scored once against Hufflepuff. Gryffindor was out of the cup, and, as long as Ravenclaw and Slytherin got decent scores against one another, would be finishing last in the championship. It wasn’t a good feeling, and Sherlock didn’t help.

Sherlock had, at general request, pulled his mysterious connections with the house elves and got them some food for a party, though no-one felt much like celebrating; and Jim had been persuaded to make a rare visit to the Gryffindor dormitory. John rather suspected it was only because Molly had asked him to, as she thought John might need cheering up. In fairness to Jim, he was doing his best.

“It was fantastic, Johnny-boy, that little manoeuvre you and Moran were doing!”  He said enthusiastically. “That takes serious skill, you know. Reeves couldn’t get anywhere at all! It would have all been over in seconds if you hadn’t let her go!”

“I didn’t like it.” Sherlock said, to everyone’s surprise. Sherlock never commented on Quidditch, except apparently complaining to Molly that John was at training too often. Even now he had been silent, reading through some library book that he had spent several minutes explaining the usefulness of, to which no-one had attended. He continued turning pages as he spoke. “I didn’t think you were the kind to bully little girls, John.”

“It wasn’t bullying.” John said uncomfortably. “Blockading is a legitimate tactic. The Egyptians use it all the time.”

“Perhaps they do.” Sherlock shrugged. “I just didn’t think you would.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t say you had.”

“And you’re hardly the greatest moral centre.”

“No, that’s why I expect better from you.”

He said this with such a straight fact that John couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, alright, Sherlock, I’ll find her tomorrow and apologise. Will that make you feel better?”

“It’s not about me feeling better, John, it’s about balance being restored to the universe.” Sherlock answered, going back to his book. “Your ridiculously strict morals make up for Jim and I having none.”

“Wait, where does that leave me?” Molly asked.

“Hufflepuff.” The three boys said together.

 

*

 

Winifred wasn’t difficult to find, tiny as she was, as the next morning at breakfast John spotted her leaving the Hall with some of her friends and swung his legs over the bench to follow her out.

“Winifred?” He said, and the girls turned as one, all of them starting to giggle. Slightly put off by this reception, John never the less persevered. “Can I talk to you a second?”

“Of course.” Winifred replied, looking at the floor as her friends giggled more. Eventually she shoved them away and the two of them were left alone in silence. Off the pitch, she looked even smaller. John wasn’t exactly tall himself, but Winifred’s head barely came above his elbow.

“Listen, about the match yesterday…” He said, deciding to get right to it. “I’m sorry if we scared you. We were only focusing on you because you’re such a good seeker, but it was nothing personal.  Still, I’m sorry.”

“Um, no, that’s okay.” She was still looking at the floor. John could see her cheeks were turning red as she dug into the floor with a toe. “But, I was, um, wondering…”

John’s heart started to sink. He looked around desperately for an excuse to get away and was on the point of inventing one, but it was too late. Winifred continued.

“…I was wondering if you want to… you know… hang out sometimes. I know there’s not much to do, but we could walk by the lake and stuff and… next year I’ll be allowed in Hogsmeade so we could go out then and…”

John turned her down as gently as he could while remaining firm and retreated as quickly as possible, going back to his friends at the table. Jim was looking over some of Sherlock’s research notes and was explaining them to Molly, all three of them looking up as he sat down heavily next to them.

“Did you find her?” Molly asked. “How did it go?”

“Oh, fine, she didn’t mind at all.” John sighed. “She asked me for a date.”

Jim threw his head back and laughed. “Oh dear, Johnny-boy, you certainly are popular. That’s the fourth one this term, you dog.”

“I wouldn’t mind if they weren’t all first and second years.” John rolled his eyes. “Why can’t this irresistible magnetism extend to someone my own age?”

“Oh, John, I know at least one girl in our year that fancies you.” Molly reassured him. They all looked at her in silence.

“Hmm, I hadn’t noticed.” Sherlock commented, finally. “You had that colossal crush on me in first year, of course, and since then it’s been Jim, Jim, Jim; I always assumed you’d move onto John eventually but I hadn’t noticed it happening.”

“What? Oh, no, not me!” Molly cried, face filling with blood. “I didn’t mean me!”

“Oh, that makes more sense.” Sherlock nodded. “Just when Jim was finally starting to notice you, I thought it was an odd time to move on.”

Molly stared at him, then shook her head sadly. “You always say such awful things.” She said, sadly. 

Sherlock looked slightly guilty. “Molly… I’m sorry.”

John tried to remember if he had ever heard Sherlock apologise before and decided he hadn’t. Molly seemed surprised too, but then smiled and, by demonstrated her forgiveness by reaching over to retrieve Agatha from a pile of croissants. The ferret was back on top form since Hagrid had taken over the care of her babies, all except the smallest, which Molly had named Ringo and was now upstairs asleep on her bed, an example to his mother in how to behave properly.

 


	6. Chapter Three Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Year Five Continued. Part 3/3

Chapter Three Part 3/3

 

His mother had been hoping, John knew, that the baby would be born a little premature and arrive when he was home in the Easter holidays, but, John was glad to see, the child stayed safely put until its due date. Unfortunately, even after that it stayed put, and it was on the morning of the third of May when John finally received the letter he had been waiting for.

                _Dear John,_

_Your mom had the baby this morning (2 nd May). Easy labour with no complications- about time too! Mom and your baby sister are both doing fine. Let us know your suggestions for names! _

_From Dean_

The problem with having a birthday in May, John had long since decided, was that it was right at the busiest time of the school year.  This year, for instance, he had barely spared his own birthday a thought because it was right in the middle of the O.W.Ls. For a moment when he had received his time table he had been relieved to see he had no exams that day, as the only one scheduled was the Transfiguration practical. His relief had been short-lived, however, as shortly after his time table he received a note from Professor McGonagall suggesting that might be the be the best time for him to sit his O-level maths and science papers that day under the supervision of Professor Flitwick. John’s mother had somehow arranged for John to sit his exams by correspondence, which meant the paper would be passed onto Hogwarts and he would have to sit in a teacher’s office and do it under examination conditions. Maths and Science, McGonagall suggested, could be sat during the morning and afternoon of his birthday and English at the end of the second exam week, the day he had his last O.W.L. Her letter had caused John a little concern as he had realised that he hadn’t looked at the books for months and now, on top of the near-impossible workload for O.W.Ls, he was supposed to try and pass three Muggle exams. Sherlock was his only hope and they both knew it; he alone had all the necessary knowledge and the ability to compress it down enough to equip John to pass. Unfortunately, he was also the world’s worst teacher, having no patience at all and a total inability to understand when John couldn’t keep up with what he was explaining, or had to have something explained more than once. It ended in frustration on both sides, until Molly came up with the perfect solution- Sherlock explained it to Jim, which took mere moments, and Jim explained it to John in a way that was actually comprehensible to a normal human being.  John had never been so grateful to his friends.

On the morning of his birthday, everyone was rather quiet. Molly was incredibly nervous about the Transfiguration practical, having made several mistakes in the Charms test the day before, and now, even though they kept reassuring her she was better at Transfiguration, she was more worried than ever. She sat at the breakfast table not eating much, turning a bread roll into a cheese and back again. Still though, she tried.

“Happy birthday, John!” She said, jumping up the moment she saw him and giving him a big hug and passing his gift over. “This is from the three of us.”

“Which means you chose it and bought it and the other two gave you money?” John joked, sitting down to unwrap it.

“Nonsense!” Jim answered, gesturing expansively. “The three of us spent hours and hours out of our busy, busy schedules discussing what to get you!”

“And she stole my money.” Sherlock added.

Laughing, John pulled the paper open to find a box. Mystified, but seeing Molly and Jim grinning at him from across the table, he opened the box. Inside he found a quaffle, which had graffiti all over. Signatures. He peered carefully at them and made out a name.

                “Is this signed by the England team?!”

                “Mycroft has some contacts in the Department of Sports.” Sherlock said. “But it was Molly’s idea.”

                “We only had to pay for the quaffle, they signed it for free, which I thought was lovely.” Molly said, smiling.

                “Only because we got Mycroft to tell them you were dying in St Mungos.” Jim said innocently as John looked around for one of his team mates to show the quaffle off to. “Not to put a damper on the occasion, Johnny-boy,” Jim continued. “But don’t you have an exam at nine?”

                He was right, John did, and John was very nearly late. He hurried away to Flitwick’s office just as a box from his family arrived, which Molly promised to take upstairs for him along with the quaffle. John had a feeling he would need something to cheer him up when the exams were over.

                The O-level papers were all two hours each, and, wanting to get them done as quickly as possible, he had persuaded McGonagall to let him sit maths at nine until eleven, and then science from eleven-thirty to one-thirty, so at least they were out of the way in the morning. All in all, he thought he had probably at least scraped a pass, and while they weren’t as good as some of his other exams (he thought, for example, that his written tests in Herbology and Potions had gone well) they had, at least, gone better than the Muggle Studies exam the previous day, where the question worth the most marks was _‘Explain the moral implications of the streetlight (alternatively known as the streetlamp) on the historical and modern Muggle world (25 marks)’,_ to which John had written a few stumbling sentences about people being able to see their way in the dark without magic and providing employment for lamp-lighters during the Victorian age, but had given up when he had found himself trying to use the Blitz and the black out as an example of the immorality of streetlamps. After that he had refused to write another word, doodling instead on a piece of scrap parchment.  At least he had managed to answer all the questions on the maths and science papers. Stomach rumbling and arm aching, he headed straight from Flitwick’s office to the Great Hall for the end of lunch. Molly, by now, was in an even worse state than before and just about remembered to ask about how John had gotten on before she fell back into biting her lip and staring into space. Jim sat teasing her, trying to cheer her up; naturally not worried in the slightest, given his ‘genius’ status. Sherlock, to everyone’s surprise, hadn’t objected at all to taking the exams.

                “Of course I’m taking them.” He said, when John had asked him. “This isn’t just an end of year test or a bit of homework, John, these are proper qualifications. No-one will take me seriously without them. Because they’re idiots.”

                “Oh.” John had said.

                “Anyway,” Sherlock had continued. “Unless I get as many O.W.Ls as Mycroft, he’ll say I’m not as smart as him.” And thus, his true motivation had been revealed. He hadn’t, however, seemed to do any revision at all and John did wonder how he was planning on passing any of the tests for those classes he had deemed unworthy of his time and had been skipping all year. On the other hand, John thought, it was Sherlock. He sat and piled his plate high, exhausted after his morning’s exertion. He just had time to finish before they were ushered out so the hall could be prepared for the examination.

                The Hogwarts practical examinations were extremely unlike any you would find at a muggle school. All the participants were lined up alphabetically, where they were called forward one by one to perform a set task, after which they would go and sit in the seats to the side and watch the other candidates. For once, John hadn’t minded being at the end of the alphabet, meaning he got plenty of time to hear and see what worked and what didn’t.  Molly had the greater objection, because, just as at the Sorting, she was always required to have her turn immediately after Sherlock which meant she would always look rubbish in comparison and which apparently made the pressure even worse. John had been intending to go up and open the presents off his mom while the others were doing the test, but to his surprise, Jim grabbed his arm to stop him.

                “Come and watch the test.” He said, grinning. “I’m sure Sherlock’s planning something.”

                “Planning what?”

                “I don’t know, he hasn’t said anything, but can’t you just _tell_?”

                John couldn’t tell, but if Jim could and Sherlock really was planning something, John didn’t want to miss it. When the candidates were shuffling themselves into alphabetical order, he slipped onto the end of the line, hoping that when enough people had gone he could slip into the stands and mingle with them to watch. He managed it at the beginning of the Hs, a few students before Sherlock. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything and John settled himself down to watch his friends.

                The aim of that day’s test was a series of exercises that got progressively harder, beginning with changing a pile of wood into a useful item of furniture and ending with a vanishing spell on a ferret, that Hagrid had supplied that year in place of a kitten. John wasn’t sure how Sherlock would take to vanishing one of Agatha’s children, or Molly to one of Ringo’s siblings, but as he was about to find out, Sherlock had no intention of doing any such thing.

                “Sherlock Holmes.” Professor McGonagall called, and Sherlock took his place in front of the bench, behind which sat Professor McGonagall, an invigilator and a moderator from the Ministry, who would check fair marks were being given. “Alright, Sherlock, if you’d like to begin with the wood. You can transfigure it into any useful object you like; points will be awarded for the most efficient use of the material as well as for aesthetic appearance and quality. Off you go.”

                “No.” Sherlock answered. Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows nearly disappeared under her hat.

                “Then how, Mr Holmes, do you plan on passing this test?”

                “Like this, Professor.” Sherlock answered, and suddenly, his back convulsed and wings swept forward, engulfing his arms, while all across his body changes were happening, parts shrinking and reforming, until, after a few seconds, an owl was perching calmly on the edge of the desk.

                There was utter silence in the examination hall. The owl that was Sherlock looked around and, seeing no-one was responding, calmly turned into an otter.

                McGonagall was on her feet now, the other two members of staff with her, her hat askew, looking utterly amazed as excited murmurings broke out amongst the students.

                “Well… I never… only the best wizards can master two forms, but to be able to go straight from one to the other, it’s… it’s simply not possible!”

                Just to firmly persuade her she was wrong, the otter shook itself and shrunk slightly into a ferret, or, more precisely, into Agatha. John wondered just how often, when he had seen Agatha on solo trips around the castle, it had actually been Sherlock. Not that it was his prime concern at the moment. The hall was in an uproar, the students all talking excitedly at once. Jim was laughing hysterically, whooping with delight. Molly had her hands clapped over her mouth in shock. Up in the spectators, John found he was on his feet applauding with the rest.

                “Sherlock, that was brilliant!” he shouted, hoping his friend could hear over the hubbub as he turned into Sherlock again, curls slightly rumpled but otherwise the same as always. “Brilliant!”

                Professor McGonagall, finally overcoming her surprise, shot some sparks into the air.

                “Quiet! Everyone settle down!” she shouted. “I think… yes, I think we’d better end the examination there, we’ll continue later for those who haven’t gone yet. Holmes, come with me.”

                Sherlock went, winking cheerfully at Molly as he passed, startling her out of her stunned state.

                “Oh!” She cried. “Sherlock! How on earth am I supposed to follow that?!”

 

*

 

                Naturally, by dinner time the story had spread around the whole school and had been wildly exaggerated. River Waters came up to John to ask exactly what the fifteen animals Sherlock had turned into were and if he had really become a dragon.

                “Um, no.” John replied. “That’s not exactly what happened…”

                “Who told you he turned into fifteen animals? That’s ridiculous!” Jim snorted. “He turned into at least twenty.”

                River left and John turned to his friend, grinning. “Why do I get the feeling most of the exaggeration about this is down to you?” He asked.

                “Because it is. I’m going to try getting them to believe he turned into Molly next.”

                “No you are not!” Molly told him, slapping him on the back.

                Jim laughed. “Anyway, Miss Molly, is she the one?”

                Molly broke into a smile. “Oh, you noticed!”

                “Noticed what?” John asked, but the two of them just laughed. Before he could question it any further, Sherlock came in.

                “Hello.” He said, looking quite pleased with himself. He had always, by his own admission, enjoyed showing off and now he was the centre of attention for the whole school. John rolled his eyes at him, knowing he was loving it.

                “Well, what was that all about?” He asked. “Were you trying to give Professor McGonagall a heart attack or was this all just about proving how smart you are?”

                “Hmm, not what you said before.” Sherlock replied, waving at him to move up before sliding into his accustomed position on the bench. “Before you said ‘Sherlock, that was brilliant’, I believe.”

                “Yeah, but obviously I didn’t mean it.”

                “You said ‘brilliant’ twice, in fact.”

                “Lies.”

                “Never mind your witty banter now.” Jim interrupted, impatient. “How long have you been an animagus, hmm, Sherley? Three forms, too, that’s major magic. When were you going to share with the group?”

                “I don’t tell you everything.”

                “No… no, it doesn’t seem like you do.”

“Anyway, I’ve told you now.” Sherlock said, happy for once. “I’ve been working on the forms for a while. I did Agatha first, I’ve been doing that one since second year, but the owl I only started on last year and the otter was just because I needed something that could swim without being totally useless on the land, otter seemed the obvious choice.”

“So what did McGonagall say?” Molly asked.

“Oh, she made me do it again for Flitwick and Dumbledore and then I had to fill out a lot of extremely long and dull forms to register with the ministry. Ha!” he stopped himself suddenly. “I’ve just thought, Mycroft doesn’t know. And the first he’ll know of it is when my papers come in. Haha, imagine his face! Oh, I can’t wait for the post the day after tomorrow.” He rubbed his hands together happily. “You’re right, John, this is brilliant.”

“I bet she told you you’re not allowed to do it till you’re seventeen, too.” Jim pulled them back to the original topic.

“Yeah, but they didn’t notice me doing it before, so why stop now?” Sherlock shrugged.

“Hmm.” Jim smirked, happy. “This could come in very handy, you know.” He picked up a salt shaker, tossing it idly from hand to hand, his finger over the hole. “No-one is supposed to be able to do more than one form, not unless they’re really good. And…” He set it down again, deliberately. “Based on our understanding of it, you shouldn’t be able to go from one form straight into another without becoming human in between.  So.” He looked up. “That’s two impossible things you’ve done today, Sherlock.”

“I don’t count it as a productive day unless I’ve done at least five impossible things.”

“Good to know.”

In the end, it all turned out pretty well. With the exception of the remainder of the Transfiguration practical, which had to be done under the same conditions, in all other practical examinations from then on the students would be called in one by one to do in private, which Molly was greatly pleased about. As for Sherlock, he was slightly disgruntled to be made to do the practical again as McGonagall said he hadn’t demonstrated he had the skills necessary to pass the O.W.L, regardless of his other merits. He was, however, delighted with the response from Mycroft:

_Well-played, brother- M_

Sherlock said he was just pleased to have successfully hidden something from Mycroft for so long and having outsmarted him, but John privately thought he might have been a little pleased at the compliment too.

 

*

 

 

Exams finally over, summer was upon them. Jim, as he had been since September, was determined that they should all spend as much of the six-week break as possible staying with him at his home which he assured them was ‘the most boring place on earth with no-one else there’, but this was proving more difficult than they had anticipated. John, naturally, had to at least go home for the start of the summer because he had yet to meet his baby sister in spite of the endless pictures his mother had been sending him. He also resolutely refused to be in Ireland at the end of August because in spite of all Jim’s attempted persuasions, there was no way he was missing out on watching the Ashes.   For some time, then, the arrangement had been that they would all spend  two weeks at home, then have three with Jim, then another at home before the beginning of term. This had been settled for some time when Molly finally thought to ask if Sherlock wasn’t making his customary trip to Paris, to which Sherlock had replied of course he was, but he had never actually said he would be joining them at Jim’s, but they wanted him there, so all their plans were thrown into confusion. Finally it was Mrs Hudson who sorted it out with Mycroft, who agreed to cut their usual four week visit in half as he was so busy at work anyway, and arranged for Sherlock to go to Paris in the first two weeks of the break and from there immediately to Jim’s. John had never loved his mother so much as when he received that letter, which began: ‘ _Seeing as you boys are apparently incapable of organising anything, I’ve had a little chat with Mycroft…’_. Finally, thanks to her, the trip was arranged and all was set. John couldn’t wait; after two weeks at home with a small baby he was ready to get away.

It wasn’t that he disliked the child, far from it. In fact, the brotherly love that had begun to reluctantly stir from the near daily pile of unnecessary photographs emerged, full force, the first time he held little Harriet in his arms.  He hadn’t been the one to suggest Harriet, it had actually been Dean. Harriet, Harry for short, after Harry Watson, the father John had lost so long before. His mother had been so touched by the suggestion, and John pleased to see his dad remembered as part of his new family, that Harriet had been immediately agreed on by them all. She was a lively child who never seemed to want to lie still or go to sleep when she was supposed to. It wasn’t good for John’s nerves. He knew, of course, that babies crying in the night was normal, and that his mom and Dean weren’t at all worried- but every time he was woken by her wailing in the small hours, his chest would tighten with anxiety and not relax again until his mother had soothed her. John kept a close eye on his sister during the day, just in case, and swore that he would never, ever, confess this weakness to Sherlock or Jim. He loved that little girl more than he had expected to; he couldn’t help but feel happy when she was giggling or cooing or curling her tiny hands round his shirt or his buttons. Often she would laugh at nothing at all, and you couldn’t help laughing too. She was so cute that without Sherlock around to kill time with, John could see himself ending up doting on the baby as much as his mother, and also, being a rather twitchy companion by the time he made it to Ireland, given that he wasn’t getting any sleep with all the noise and that he was sure he lost a year off his life every time she suddenly started crying. Somehow, protecting that little life was far scarier than anything he had ever seen or heard about in his military childhood or at Hogwarts since. Some nights, when she just wouldn’t shut up, and he clamped his pillow over his ears in an attempt to sleep, he thought he would almost rather take on the spiders again.

Finally, it was time to make his way to Jim’s. His home turned out to be on a tiny island, about six miles off the coast from Ballycastle, Ireland, the only access to it being by ferry. Jim was to meet them on the mainland, at the ferry terminal, but when John arrived he was nowhere to be seen. John took a seat on one of the benches, looking out on the sea. He could make out Rathlin Island, of course, a loosely-L shaped mass out on the waves, the ferry presumably carrying Jim nearly with them. John was more interested in the ocean. It was beautiful. Until his crossing over to Ireland, however, he had only seen it once before, on one of the rare summers they had visited England and had made a trip to Blackpool. He was so young at the time that the memories were hazy in his mind and the only thing he really remembered with any clarity was his dad picking him up to put him on the back of a donkey. Other than that, his early memories were all swamps and deserts and shanty towns and since then he had been firmly a Chelsea boy, rooted in the city. He felt almost like the ocean would sweep him away. But as he breathed in the air and tasted the salt in it, he couldn’t help but smile. He couldn’t wait to get in there to swim.

“John!” An excited voice called to him. He turned to see Molly waving as she practically broke into a run with her eagerness to get to him. Molly and her mother had eventually settled in Essex, so John had hoped to travel from England with her, but she had been staying with an aunt in Wales the weekend before the crossing was to be made, making it easier to travel separately. John, for his part, barely recognised her. He was used to seeing her in her dark school robes which were always too big because her mother still insisted she would grow into them, with her long hair tied back and her only ornamentation regulation small stud earrings. This was not the case now. Now she was dressed in a bright, multi-coloured dress that was almost garish, and John wasn’t quite sure why he liked it, but just knew that he did. The skirt, John couldn’t help noticing, was really quite short. Not that he was looking. But it was definitely quite a short skirt. Her hair was down and long, blowing about in the wind even as she tried to hold it back, and as she did so he realised she was wearing hooped earrings almost big enough to fit a fist through. John suddenly realised he was staring and made himself blink and smile, frantically trying to identify what was the matter with him. He thought it might be the skirt and the fact Molly was a girl. Of course, he had always known she was a girl, but now came the uncomfortable realisation that she was a _girl_.

“John, what’s wrong?” She asked.

“Oh, nothing.” John answered quickly, hugging her. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too!” She said, happily. “Ah, I’m so excited, I can’t wait!”

John agreed, admitting that he had been looking forward to this trip more than almost anything he had looked forward to before. It was then that Jim arrived to join them, hurtling off the ferry, seeming delighted.

“There’s my Johnny-boy!” He said, grabbing him round the neck as was his usual way. John shoved him off, grinning; Jim’s high spirits were, as usual, infectious as he grabbed hold of Molly. “And Miss Molly, good golly, what are you wearing? You’ll raise pulses up and down the island in that get up! I was going to say it’s good to see you, but now, well, it’s _good_ to _see_ you.”

“Shut up.” Molly told him, embarrassed, but clearly pleased at the compliment.

“Oh, come on, you look gorgeous. Now I’m definitely stealing a kiss. Mwah!” He kissed her theatrically on the cheek, making her burst into giggles. John, watching them, suddenly realised that Jim had realised Molly was a _girl_ ages ago, and felt rather stupid. He wondered suddenly if this was what it was like to be Sherlock, watching people and working things out and all the while being stuck outside of it.

“Aww, what’s the matter, Johnny-boy?” Jim asked, draping an arm around both their shoulders and starting to steer them towards the docks. “Jealous? Don’t worry, you’re gorgeous too. Mwah!” John ducked out of the way just in time and shoved him, hard.

“You’re such a pillock.” He laughed, as Jim shoved him back. It probably would have developed into a full blown wrestling contest in the way of excited, unsupervised teenagers, had Molly not separated them, breathless with laughter, and told them the ferry was about to go. They presented their tickets and got on board, taking the whole journey standing by the railings, cooling off from the baking August sunshine in the spray that fell on them, calming them slightly.

“So how big is Rathlin island?” John asked, measuring with his fingers. “About seven-by-one-point-five?”

“Ooh, close, but no cigar.” Jim answered. “Six by one, Johnny-boy, six by one. Smaller than pretty much everywhere, except Sark.”

“I think it looks beautiful.” Molly said, excited. “Which side is your house on? Can you see it?”

“It’s easy to see, it’s that one.” Jim answered, pointing to the far corner of the island, where a lone house could be made out, standing solitary at the edge of a hill above and separate from the rest of the settlement, which housed around fifty people. “Oldest building on the whole island, my family’s been here for generations.”

“Is it easy to get to the beach from there?” Molly asked. Jim grinned.

“Oh yeah, wait till you see.” He answered.

“So what is there on Rathlin?” John asked. “Except the beach?”

“There’s the Boathouse that has history and stuff.” Jim shrugged. “And birds. Lots of birds and seals. And a Church.”

“Ha, now I understand the boring.”

“John, don’t be rude.” Molly scolded him. “It sounds lovely.” And she was right.

Before too long, the ferry docked and Jim immediately lead the way past the Boathouse and the pub and the fish and chip shop and the rather sorry-looking Rathlin Island gift shop, up a side road where they began their assent to the house. On closer inspection, it didn’t look much like a house at all.

“Jim,” John said, trying and failing to keep the surprise out of his voice. “Do you live in a castle?”

“Sort of.” Jim smirked. “But only a little one, and it’s a house inside.”

“How can it be a house inside?” John asked, looking at the crumbling towers. Jim was right, it was more of a keep than a castle, but still.

“Oh, John, this is why you’re no good at transfiguration.”

They reached the house and going in, found a normal hall. Jim was right. Inside it was a normal house. By the time he had removed his shoes, John decided to try not to match up the outside to the inside or he would go mad; particularly when Jim and his mother lead them up one single flight of stairs to the room John and Sherlock would be sharing with Jim, and the view was as if from the top of the remains of the ruined turret. Molly had the spare room next door. They were all facing the sea. After dropping their luggage and a quick look around their rooms, they trouped down to the lounge because Sherlock was due to arrive at any moment.

And arrive he did, reluctantly holding onto Mycroft’s elbow as the two of them appeared with a sharp crack neatly in the exact centre of Jim’s lounge.

“Good afternoon, everyone.” Mycroft said, calmly. “Ah, you must be Mrs Moriarty. Thank you for inviting Sherlock.”

“Oh, not at all, not at all.” Jim’s mother said. “Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?”

“No.” Sherlock said. Mycroft shot him a look, then smiled at Jim’s mother.

“No, thank you, but I must call in at the Ministry, something quite urgent demands my attention.” He said. “Still, if I could trouble you for a glass of brandy, it would be much appreciated. Long-distance apparition is convenient, but it is a trifle taxing.”

“I could have done it myself.” Sherlock was clearly sulking. John hoped he wouldn’t spoil the mood.

“Yes, Sherlock, and then the Ministry would have prosecuted you for apparating while underage without having passed your test. Again. Even I only have so many favours I can call in.” Mycroft accepted the glass of brandy offered to him and, swallowing it down in a gulp, thanked his hostess and asked to avail himself of their fireplace. Taking a small pouch of floo powder from an inside pocket, he bid them goodbye before taking some of the powder out. He threw it on the fireplace and stated clearly ‘895 Carriage Drive North, Chelsea’, disappearing from sight.

“Oh, I thought he was going to the Ministry?” Molly asked.

“The Ministry isn’t on the general Floo network.” Sherlock answered. “He’ll have to go from home.”

“But your house isn’t number 895.” John said. “Your house is number 60.”

“Then what’s at 895?” Molly asked, curious.

“My house.” John answered, through gritted teeth.  Sherlock threw up his hands in self defence.

“I told him not to, but he insisted. He says your mother invited him to come and meet that baby of yours and it would be bad manners not to stop in.”

“It’s worse manners to get ash all over the carpet, like last time.”

“Yes, your mom wasn’t very happy, was she?” Sherlock laughed. “Anyway, John, you look terrible.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.” John sighed. “Harriet keeps crying in the night, I haven’t had much sleep.”

“This is why babies are a bad idea.” Sherlock said, pulling Agatha out of his back pack and letting her go free.

“It’s not me that had one, Sherlock.” John sighed as they went over the same old arguments. “Anyway, you’ll like her when you meet her. She’s cute.”

“I don’t like cute.”

“Says the guy that brings his ferret everywhere with him.”

“Come on, stop the jabbering.” Jim said, grabbing Sherlock’s bag and going to take it upstairs. “Let’s dump this and get down to the beach.”

“Be careful with that!” Sherlock said, anxiously.

“Why, what’s in here?” Jim asked, tossing it into the air and catching it again. Sherlock glared at him.  Jim, without ceremony, pulled the bag open.

“Books, books, books, research notes, test tubes- Sherlock, did you bring any clothes at all?”

“Of course I did.” Sherlock scowled. “The bag has an extension charm on it.”

“Really?” Jim rummaged deeper. Frowning, he pulled out what was soon revealed to be the neck of a violin. “Oh, good grief.”

“Leave it!” Sherlock snapped, grabbing the bag and taking it upstairs himself. John and Jim looked at each other and couldn’t help but laugh. It would be just like Sherlock to have brought his entire collection of worldly goods on holiday with him.

Luggage stowed away, they headed outside into the sunshine. Jim took them out the back door, across a small courtyard that belonged to the house, and then over a stile into a grassy field at the back.

“I thought we were going to the beach?” Molly said. “Don’t we need to head that way?”

“I told you, wait and see.” Jim grinned. “We have a private access point, it’s much quicker than going all down the hill.” Beckoning them a few yards forward, he stopped by a low stone ring, covered by a metal sheet with two heavy handles on it.

“A well?” Sherlock asked.

“No, all salt water down there.” Jim pulled the cover up, revealing a ladder disappearing down into the hatch. “It looks like one, but my family haven’t always been on the straight and narrow, you know. We think this was for the smugglers.”

“Where does it go?” Molly asked nervously, looking down into the dark.

“Just down to a cave, on a little cove. A private beach, ten, fifteen yards across maybe, very intimate. Much better than the touristy one down there.”

“We’re not going down there, are we?” Molly was anxious. “What if the tide’s in?”

“Come on, Molly, you can see it’s not.” John nodded down at the main beach, where the tide was quite clearly out. “Anyway, let’s have some Gryffindor courage.”

“Alright…”

“Hang on.” Jim stooped down to check Sherlock’s pockets. The reason stooping was necessary was that Sherlock had stopped looking at the ladder and was kneeling on the ground examining the soil. Used to his quirks, they had been ignoring him, but now, Jim pulled Sherlock’s wand from his pocket, correctly assuming that Sherlock was the only one who had bothered to bring one along. He pointed it down the hole. “ _Lumos.”_ The wand sparked slightly, reluctant to respond to this foreign hand, but finally the tip illuminated. Jim gave it a shake and a ball of light dropped from the end, glowing in the tunnel and showing that it was really hardly any distance at all, the wooden ladder new and sturdy, firmly rooted in the sand at the bottom.

“Aren’t you underage?” John asked, smirking.

“Oh, nobody will mind a little light in the middle of nowhere.” Jim answered, blowing on the tip of the wand as he theatrically extinguished it, putting it back into Sherlock’s pocket, who had ignored the entire procedure. “Anyway, they’ll trace it to him, not me.”

“Jim.” Sherlock interrupted, sounding rather excited, holding up what looked like a clod of mud to show him. John looked more closely and the clod of mud was revealed to be exactly that.

“Yes, I know.” Jim smiled indulgently. “Off you pop.”

Sherlock nodded and was away, moving to a spot closer to the edge of the cliff, immediately dropping to his knees and examining the ground there.

“Um, what’s going on?” John asked.

“No idea.” Jim shrugged. “But he seems happy enough. He’ll join us when he’s ready, come on.” Without further ceremony, he hopped over the low wall and clambered down, helping Molly off the ladder at the bottom and after waiting for John to join them lead them out of the cave and into the sunlight.

 

*

 

The three weeks passed incredibly quickly and John didn’t want them to end. Most of their time had been spent on the beach, of course, but they had done other things too; what little the tiny settlement had to offer. They had been in the Boathouse and seen relics of the history of the island, mostly about Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland; and the remains of the smugglers. The first Monday they had been there had been a bank holiday, which to the islanders was apparently a good excuse to hold what Jim called a ‘ceilidh’. Jim had complained of the festivities and sworn to avoid going at all costs, until his mother specifically forbade them from going; preferring they kept their distance from the muggle townspeople, and suddenly they had decided to attend. John had mixed feelings about it; at first, the semi-amateur tin pipes and drums and the country dancing made him uncomfortable, but it was hard not to get caught up with the atmosphere when the town square and pier was hung round with fairy lights and everyone was having a good time. Deciding the only way to enjoy such an event was to join in wholeheartedly, John did so, joining in on the singing and the dancing, along with Molly and Jim. Sherlock, naturally, could not be prevailed upon to try it but sat and watched good naturedly enough, until, thanks to some mischief from Jim the entire assembly persuaded him to take over the fiddle. As always, he played it so well, even though he had never played country dances before, that he was admired. More than that, John knew, he had enjoyed it, and had caught him the next day playing some of the tunes from memory. When he looked back, these three weeks at Jim’s, and that night in particular, were some of the only times he could ever remember Sherlock seeming relaxed.

They had individual entertainments too. Molly had taken to collecting sea shells, which she liked them all to contribute to, and spent time carefully cleaning and arranging them. Sherlock, for his part, had collected soil samples from all over the island and had been doing his usual processes of analysis and recording. John had told him that he was supposed to be on holiday and shouldn’t be working, but Sherlock had told him this wasn’t work, as he was taking a break from chemistry and potions, and then went into lengthy explanations about how important it was that he should be able to recognise at a glance different kinds of soil. John had said that didn’t sound like his idea of a holiday, to which Sherlock had irritably replied John’s manner of passing time didn’t sound much like a holiday either. This was probably true. John had been determined to make the most of the landscape and, being a much earlier riser than the others, had been most days completing what Jim called ‘The John Watson Triathlon’ before returning for breakfast. This involved running round part of the island and across the beach, down to the ocean, swimming round into their cove, scrambling up a rock pile that formed part of the cliff and then completing the short jog back to the house. John loved every second of it, but was glad that none of his friends had any desire to join him. He liked the quiet that existed on the island in the mornings, when only he and the fishermen were about, and he liked the solitude and the simplicity. As much as he loved Quidditch, there was something nice about going back to basics here, in the natural landscape, with no broom, no bat and no magic, just himself and his own power and ability. The challenge exhilarated him and every day he got quicker. He would miss this when his morning run had to switch back to pounding the grey Chelsea pavements or just doing a quick lap round the edge of the school lake.

The majority of their time of course had been spent together on the beach. On the first morning after their arrival, the four of them had rigged up a pulley system to the side of the ladder, to make it easier to carry things up and down and, using the high stone ledges in the cave that had presumably been left there by the smugglers, had built up quite a base of operations for themselves. They had Jim’s transistor radio, plenty of food and drink, each other and what felt like all the time in the world. They swam and talked and played around, one morning they made sandcastles like children and Sherlock had actually joined in, his the most elaborate and intricate of all. John had discovered two things about Sherlock that holiday. First, that Sherlock got sunburnt very easily and second, that he was very difficult to take seriously when his face and nose were bright red. This, perhaps, was the reason that he didn’t wear anything other than long trousers and full sleeves, even while the others were in shorts and t-shirts. More often than not, while the others played around in the ocean or on the sand, Sherlock would be poking about in the rock pools or else flopped in the shade at the edge of the cave with one of the endless books he seemed to have brought with him. But not on their last day. John had already decided that. On their last full day there, he had other plans.

They had already spent the morning on the beach in their usual fashion and had joined Sherlock in the shade to have a lunch made up of sandwiches and apple juice and a large box of Every-flavour Beans. That day Sherlock seemed to be making an effort to be more sociable and had brought Agatha to the beach with him, and was trying her out on the different flavours. Seeing how much she enjoyed them made Molly regret that she hadn’t brought Ringo along on the trip, leaving him in the care of her mother, but she had decided to try him on the sweets when she got home.

“Be careful.” John cautioned her. “I’m not entirely sure ferrets are meant to eat jelly beans.”

“Of course they are!” Sherlock answered. “Look, Agatha’s fine.”

“Yes, but Agatha is your pet. She’s used to weird and wonderful ill treatment.”

“I do seem to remember you trying to shove her down a sink in first year, Sherlock.” Jim stretched out lazily and laid back in the sand, grinning in his usual cocky way.

“Yes, I seem to remember someone helping me, I wonder who it was.”

They laughed and sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the sound of the waves and the latest ‘songs of the summer’ that were playing on the radio. Finally, John got to his feet and left them, promising to be back soon. He had his wallet with him; now he just had to go round to the little gift shop on the other side of the island, in which he had spotted something which he had sworn to buy before he left.

By the time he returned, Molly and Jim were deep in conversation, him playfully burying her feet in the sand as they talked. Sherlock, as always, was perched on his rock out of the sand, one hand holding up a book and the other absently stroking Agatha, who appeared to be asleep on his lap. John clapped his hands for attention.

“Alright, you three.” He said, smiling. Sherlock looked up.

“What are you hiding behind your back?” He asked, suspicious.

“The very thing you can’t have a beach holiday without.” John answered, pulling it out. “A cricket set!”

“We’re playing cricket?” Jim asked, coming over to look at the oddly shaped bat.

“No.” said Sherlock.

“Yes.” Said John, and handing the stumps over to Molly, the only other person even slightly familiar with the game, desired her to go and make the wicket. Sherlock was very pointedly still looking at his book.

“Come on, Sherlock.” John said, walking over and pulling out his other purchase; a sunhat, which he put firmly on Sherlock’s head. “There, no excuses. You’re playing too.”

“No, I’m not.” Sherlock answered, turning another page in his book, which was today the thrilling-sounding ‘A Study in Cyphers- Secret Codes and Symbols in Ancient Runes’. “I’m reading my book.”

“Yeah, well…” John deftly snatched it out of his hands and threw it hard into the air, where it settled on a little ledge on the cliff wall. “No you aren’t. So come on.”

“That was a library book.” Sherlock said, somewhat resentfully, readjusting his hat. It looked absurd, but at least it would stop him getting sunstroke again.

“Yes, well, it can join every other library book you’ve never returned.” John answered. “Or I’ll climb up and get it for you later. But not if you don’t play cricket.”

With a deep sigh to prove how hard-pressed he was, Sherlock moved Agatha from his lap and unfolded himself from the rock, reluctantly joining the others by the wicket as John attempted to explain the basic rules of cricket. It didn’t go well.

“Look, just hit the ball and run.” He sighed eventually. “And if you’re not batting, try to catch it.”

“I hate sport without a purpose.” Sherlock muttered.

“It does have a purpose, Sherlock, it’s fun.”

“Fun?”

“Yes, fun. We are going to have… fun.”

“I think that’s an order, Sherlock.” Jim shoved the bat into his hands. Sherlock turned it round, puzzled.

“Which side is the front?”

 John thought then that this could turn out to be a very long game.

 

*

 

                It was a long game, but not for the reasons John had thought. The problem was, his friends were better than he had been expecting. Sherlock, when finally persuaded to play it seriously, hit the ball every time, while Jim took to the task of bowling people out with nothing less than delight; a wicked bowler who could hit the wickets on almost every try. He was the only one who managed to bowl Sherlock out, and that only after Sherlock had got several good hits in. John himself, of course, was no push over and definitely the quickest runner, not to mention the best fielder. Molly was the real surprise of the group, however, because in spite of the fact that she couldn’t run fast or catch or throw to save her life, she turned out to be a splendid batswoman. In fact, she almost ended the game early when she smacked the ball so hard it flew straight off towards the ocean.

                “Haha, good golly Miss Molly.” Jim said again, shielding his eyes to watch the ball arc into the water. “Nice shot.”

                “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

                “I wouldn’t like to meet you in a dark alley with that thing, that’s all I’m saying.” Jim laughed.

                “Does that mean it’s game over?” Sherlock asked.

                “Nope.” John answered, and sprinted down to the water’s edge where he had to swim out a few metres, but managed to retrieve the ball.  He returned to his friends, dripping wet, with the soggy ball in hand. “Got it.” He said, happy.

                “Haha, good boy.” Jim said, patting him on the head. “Seriously, Johnny-boy, were you a dog in another life? You know Sherley could have just done the otter and gone to get it.”

                “Could have, but didn’t.” Sherlock replied, then promptly changed into an owl.

                “What are you doing, Sherlock?” John asked, sighing. The owl that was Sherlock hooted derisively at him and flew off onto the ledge, and, after a little awkward negotiation, managed to take the book up between its talons, before beginning to fly back down with it. Unfortunately, he had forgotten that John still had the cricket ball, and was quite an accurate shot. A second later ball hit book with a sharp impact, sending it falling down to the ground, unfortunately landing right in a rock pool.

                Sherlock landed and changed back, but when he pulled the leather cover out, the sodden pages fell away, the ancient old parchment dissolving almost immediately in the water. Sherlock looked at it in disappointment.

                “Oops.” John said.

                “You realise you’ve probably poisoned all the little shrimps.” Sherlock reprimanded him. “By contaminating the water.”

                “No, they’re fine, look.” John answered. “Come on, it’s your turn to bat.”

                “You aren’t going to apologise?”

                “Nope.”

                Sherlock tried to look fierce, but then he cracked, smiling in amusement. “Alright.” He said, getting up and taking his place. He was, to everyone’s surprise, caught out on the first bat, by Molly, who completed a spectacular dive for the ball and seemed more surprised than anyone about it. On seeing her face, Jim fell about laughing until they all joined in.

                In the end, they played until they were exhausted and crawled up the beach, flopping down heavily on the sand. Tired as he was, John couldn’t remember feeling as happy as he did just then.  For a while they lay back on the sand, the four of them together, finally sitting up to watch the sun setting on the waves, listening to the songs crackling out of the radio. It was Jim’s pride and joy, his muggle radio that he had made a special trip to the mainland to go and buy. Now, though, he left it with them while he and Molly slipped away to have a last paddle. John noticed he and Sherlock weren’t invited to join in, but he let it slide. He didn’t have to win the game in observation and deduction to realise that those two were going to be a _thing_.

                He was right. As he sat next to Sherlock on the beach, watching the sun going down, he could see them out of the corner of his eye, some way off. Molly was squealing as Jim was kicking water at her. Then they started to walk down the beach together, at the edge of the sea.

                “Sherlock.” John said, nudging his friend with his foot. Sherlock looked up from his latest book which he had retrieved from the cave.

                 “What is it?”

                “Look.” John said, nodding down at the water front. “I think they’re holding hands.”

                Sherlock looked, and nodded. “Well, she is hopelessly clumsy.”

                John stared at him in disbelief and then resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock, at least, would probably never work out Molly was a _girl_. Sherlock went back to his book and John continued to watch as Jim and Molly made their slow progress along the edge of the waves. He saw the moment when they came to a complete halt and, pulling her by the hand to stand just slightly closer, Jim inclined his head and kissed her gently.

                “He’s kissed her.” John reported to Sherlock.

                “Oh. Fool.” Sherlock snorted.

                “Shut up, they’re coming back.”

                Indeed they were. Molly was blushing slightly, but smiling happily. Jim, for his part, was grinning broadly and dived into the sand with such enthusiasm it was clear he couldn’t contain his excitement. When Molly sat down more elegantly next to him, he was so happy his smile threatened to cut his head in two.

                John knew the polite thing to do would be to not say anything. He probably shouldn’t have watched and they would be embarrassed to know they had been observed. He should just decline to make comment and wait for them to tell him in their own time.  Then he remembered he was their friend, and as their friend, it was his solemn duty to tease them.

                “So, you two, something you want to share with the group?” He asked, innocently. “Any little adventures, any _events_ , anything like that?”

                “Shut up.” Jim said, kicking him good naturedly. John dodged out of the way.

                “I’ll take that as a no.” He said. “Which is interesting, because I swear I saw _someone_ out there snogging just now, didn’t you see them? You must have nearly walked right into them.”

                “John, shut it.” Jim shoved him hard, though he was still grinning. Molly, blushing furiously, hid behind her hands.

                “Seriously though, Molly, are you sure you want to go out with this guy? Because if you just want to try snogging people I’m sure I-”

                “Try it, Watson, and I’ll break your neck.” Jim interrupted, savagely. John looked at him and the two of them burst out laughing.

                “Come on.” John said eventually, getting up. “If we’re going to make a bonfire, we need to do it before it gets dark.”

 

 

 *

 

                “We should probably move soon.” Molly said, sleepily.

                They all agreed, but lying back on the cool sand in a line, the four of them together in front of the remains of their bonfire, none of them moved. They had collected driftwood and seaweed, and when that hadn’t been enough, Sherlock had transfigured some out of sand before anyone could stop him, which meant he would no doubt be receiving another angry letter from the Ministry but did make for an amazingly good fire. They had wrapped some potatoes in foil and cooked them in the ashes, and eaten them when they were still hot enough to burn their tongues. After that, Jim had gone back to the cave and reappeared a moment later carrying a crate.

                “What’s that?” Molly had asked.

                “Beer.” Sherlock said immediately. “I noticed it earlier.”

                “Not just any beer, my boys.” Jim had said with an air of grandeur. “This is the best, the very best, Irish-brewed, Dragon’s Breath Lager. Best beer in the world.”  He tossed a bottle over to Sherlock, and another to John, who peered at the label in the dying light. The dragon on the front was no friendly caricature, but a vicious looking thing, blowing smoke and snapping at his fingers. Knowing his manly pride was at stake, John pulled the bottle open and sipped at it.

                “Oh!” He choked, coughing in spite of himself. “Woah, Jim, do you have any idea how strong this stuff is?”

                “I do now.” Jim spluttered back, having just taken a first sip for himself. “Whoo! That’ll put the hairs on your chest.”

                Curious, Sherlock had knocked back a mouthful even as John warned him not to, which he immediately spat out. “That is revolting!” He declared, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “People drink that out of choice?!”

                “I think it’s pretty good.” Molly said quietly, sipping serenely. John and Jim stared at her. “Well,” she said, colouring slightly but smiling mischievously.  “What do you think we _do_ in the girls’ dorm?”

                “Well.” Jim said finally, when he regained the power of speech. “That’s hot.”

                “Yeah.” John agreed, and got an elbow to the stomach for his trouble.

                And now they were lying there together on the beach, looking up at the stars without seeing them. Jim and Molly were lying next to one another, holding hands. John, on Molly’s other side, lay sprawled out, his hands behind his head, watching the smoke from the contraband cigarette Sherlock had accepted from Jim curl lazily up into the cooling night air.

                “It’s such a shame to be going home.” Molly sighed. “I wish we could stay like this forever.” She smiled reassuringly at John. “The four of us. Together.”

                “Well, that’s not impossible.” Jim said.

                “Ha.” Molly chuckled. “Right, we’ll do it.”

                “No, I’m serious.” Jim sat up and the others followed suit. “You know I’ve been hearing stories about this wizard, out in Albania. They say he’s worked out the secret to immortality. Or he’s closer to it than anyone’s ever got, anyway.”

                “Don’t be thick.” John said. “It’s impossible, even with magic.”

                “No, it isn’t. I’m telling you, this guy, he’s got it all worked out. It’s not as impossible as the dear old teachers at Hogwarts would like us to think. We could live forever. Tell them, Sherlock.”

                Sherlock extinguished his cigarette in the sand and gazed at Jim. “It depends what you class as living.” He said, finally.

                “Sherlock, what are you on about?” John asked, but Jim was warming to the topic now.

                “We could do it, you know.” He said. “The four of us. We could really do it! We could work it out and then we could live forever, have nights like this, forever.”

                John laughed, trying to cover his discomfort. “You and Sherlock, maybe.” He chuckled. “But hey, if you pin down the secret, let me know.”

                “There’s no secret.” Sherlock said, sounding angry now. “But there’s magic. Dark magic, that does things no-one should do. I wouldn’t call it living forever, Jim. I’d call it dying, dying every second for the rest of your unending life.”

                In the firelight, John could see Jim scowling furiously at Sherlock, Molly looking backwards and forwards between them anxiously. Uneasy, John sat up straighter, about to tell them not to spoil things, when Jim finally spoke.

                “For goodness sake, Sherlock, why do you always have to be so serious?” He huffed, flopping back down into the sand in a sulk.

                “Hey.” Molly said, standing up suddenly, smiling daringly. “If this is our last night here, why don’t we go for a swim?”

                “Now?” John asked, getting up too. “It’s pitch black.”

                “Come on.” She said, kicking off her shoes. “It’s our last night here. Let’s do it.”

                “You,” Jim said, getting up. “Are one crazy lady. I like that.” He pulled off his shirt.

                A few moments later, they were all of them together in the sea, swimming and splashing and messing around. It was fun, they were together, and it was another precious moment; but later, when John looked back, he would know that this was the first moment that he heard the whispers of doubt in his ears, the first time he really realised that all this could come to an end.

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter Four Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7th Year. Part 1/4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnd we’re jumping ahead a little again. Last time we were in the summer following Year 5, now we’re in the summer following Year 6- so basically, this chapter is their final year at Hogwarts. This chapter was so long, it’s going to have to be in 4 parts- sorry about that! But I had a lot of fun with this one, especially describing Sherlock’s rooms :)

Chapter Four Part 1/4

_July, 1969_

                John had hoped to slip out without them noticing. As it was, it was evident that he had absolutely failed. When he came out of the shop, they were all waiting for him at the door.

                “What are you doing here?” He sighed.

                The four of them had over the summer been staying at Sherlock’s house. For various reasons to do with his parents being away, they hadn’t been able that year to holiday at Jim’s, and finally, Sherlock had said his house had plenty of room and they had fixed upon two weeks in July to spend there; although for John there was hardly any point. He hadn’t wanted to reject this unusual show of hospitality from his friend, however, and wanted to be in on the fun. Besides which, in all this time, he had never set foot inside the main building of the Holmes household, which had turned out to be the reverse of Jim’s house- what appeared from outside to be an ordinary, if large, modern house was underneath all the illusion charms and spells revealed to be an ancient gothic mansion; if you looked down from a window at the outer walls, you could see them as they truly were, all crumbling brickwork and the odd gargoyle. John had always suspected it, and now he knew for sure. They had amused themselves during their stay thoroughly exploring the house, which was a maze of secret rooms and hidden passages, although Sherlock knew them all, and taking in some of the muggle leisure activities round the city. They had already been to see _Easy Rider_ twice at the cinema because Jim really enjoyed it, although Sherlock and Molly thought little of it. Nor had Sherlock really grasped the idea of the cinema, still under the impression that it was an elaborate painting and the figures were acting out the tale, more able to accept the idea of moving and talking portraits happening live than it being pre-recorded elsewhere. John had given up on correcting him. Jim had wanted to go a third time, but in the end it was decided he and Molly would go on their own, because they had a hard enough time trying to keep Sherlock still and quiet the first two times. He kept shouting at the film to hurry up through the boring bits and the only reason they weren’t kicked out was that Sherlock was amusing himself by doing it in a variety of voices. Other than that, there wasn’t much to do. They wandered around the area and took it easy, sometimes doing daytrips on the train or hanging around at John’s house. Still, at least they were all together.

                At this precise second, however, John would have been glad to be rid of them. He had popped out to the corner shop, and clearly they had all decided to follow him.

                “We’re investigating your suspicious behaviour.” Sherlock informed him. “You’ve been going to the shop every morning.”

                “That’s because we always need something.”

                “You’re a terrible liar, John. No imagination.”

                This, John had to admit, was true. Ironically though, he wasn’t a bad writer. He had scored particularly high marks on the creative writing section of his English O-Level paper by writing out an adventure had by three boys and a girl at a school for young witches and wizards. If the healer thing didn’t work out, perhaps he would go back to the muggle world and make his living as a writer.

                “I’m not a liar.” John answered. “Or don’t you want these after all?”

                “I’ll take them.” Sherlock replied, taking the packet of Smarties and pocketing them. “But the fact remains, you find a reason to come here every day.”

                “No I don’t!”

                “Yes you do,” Jim said, nodding at the window. “And there it is.” A pretty blonde girl about their age was removing something from the window display, before turning around and returning to the till, out of sight.

                “John.” Molly said, caught between disapproval and amusement. John, knowing he was rumbled, sighed deeply.

                “Alright, alright, you got me. Just leave her alone.”

                His request was in vain, Sherlock had already gone into the shop for a closer look, Jim following, pulling Molly by the hand. Knowing they were going to embarrass him, John hurried in after them, hoping to prevent the inevitable. Too late. Sherlock and Jim were both blatantly staring at her. She smiled and came over.

                “Hello again, John. Did you forget something?”

                “No… my friends just wanted to come in and look round the shop.” John said, hoping they would take the hint and start looking at the shelves instead of at her. They didn’t. Not that she was doing much different, staring openly at Sherlock, smiling at him.

                “Who’s your friend?” She asked.

                “Oh, this is Sherlock Holmes.” John said. “Sherlock, this is Mary Morstan. She lives a few doors down from me.”

                “Holmes?” She said. “Oh, then you’re the one that lives in the huge house on the hill?”

                “Yes.” Sherlock answered.

                “Well… it’s lovely to meet you.”

                John watched her and saw the way she was looking at him, and left. The others trooped out after him. He punched Sherlock on the shoulder.

                “Sherlock! I was actually getting somewhere with her too!”

                “What did I do?”

                “You came in the shop with your stupid pretty face and your stupid curly hair and your stupid bags of money.”

                “It’s not like I asked for her attention.”

                “Don’t take it too hard, John.” Molly tried, patting him on the back. “It’s just the usual pattern.”

                “What usual pattern?” Jim asked.

                “It’s what the girls say at school.” She shrugged. “Sherlock’s the more attractive one, but John’s the one you’d actually like to date.”

                “Wait, what does that make me?” Jim asked, while John was still trying to work out how to take this.

                “Nothing.” Molly said, without thinking, then she covered her mouth, horrified. “Wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that!”

                “Are you saying I’m nothing?” Jim growled playfully, encircling her waist and pulling her close to him, making her blush. “I’ll show you who’s nothing.”

                “Jim, no, not in front of-” Too late, he was kissing her. Feeling uncomfortable, John turned away. Molly and Jim had been dating for almost a full year now, but it still wasn’t something he wanted to see.

                “Jim, put her down.” Sherlock said. “This is boring. Let’s head back.”

                They did so.

*

 

                In spite of the fact they were staying at his house, they didn’t see much of Mycroft. He would usually join them for dinner, which he liked to have at exactly seven o’clock each evening, prepared by their devoted house elf Twitchy; who, it seemed, had firmly accepted Mycroft as the head of the family ever since the death of his father six years before. Apparently she had also been Sherlock’s only childhood playmate and as in general she did whatever Sherlock told her to, John felt it went a long way to explain Sherlock’s overbearing personality. She was the only servant they had and, it seemed, was a combination of housekeeper, cook and nanny. Somehow the house was immaculate, the food was delicious, and whenever Sherlock did anything expressly forbidden by Mycroft, it was a source of great hilarity to John and Jim to see him being told off by a little bobble-headed creature that barely reached the height of his knees. John had been a little concerned about Twitchy’s apparent slavery at first, but like the Hogwarts house elves, she loved her work and her masters and she was treated with almost as much respect as it was possible for the Holmes boys to show anyone. Still, Mycroft had told her seven o’clock was dinner time, and woe betide anyone who was late. On their second or third day they had arrived quarter of an hour late and were treated to a good few minutes of remonstrations about how “Young Master Sherlock and his friends must show more respect to Mr Mycroft” before Sherlock finally told her to shut up and bring their food, which she did. John felt he finally understood something about Sherlock’s childhood.

                After their seven o’clock dinner, Mycroft would usually withdraw to his rooms at the back of the house and leave them to it, going to bed early and leaving early for the Ministry next morning. John occasionally met him in the early hours before he went for his customary run, but only if he managed to avoid Twitchy, who hated the idea of him running on an empty stomach and would always delay him by trying to bully him into eating before he went out. John thought she would get on with his mother.

                He woke up one morning with his leg twinging. There were several possible reasons for this. One was his old injury, from the day of the Quidditch trials. It had been perfectly healed, of course, but the memory of pain lingered sometimes if he had been dreaming. It also seemed to have linked itself in somehow to the magical extra sense he had always had, ever since he was a child. Now, if he sensed danger, his leg would usually ache in anticipation. This morning, however, it was probably just stiff because he had been sleeping on a settee in Sherlock’s sitting room with his leg at an awkward angle pinned to the chair by Jim, who had fallen asleep sitting upright on the floor. Molly was on the settee too, her legs curled up on the cushion and her head on the arm of the seat. Sherlock was absent. Clearly he had left them to sleep and gone to his bedroom.

                Given the size of the Holmes Mansion, John supposed he couldn’t really be surprised that Sherlock didn’t only have his own room, but an entire suite. As a child he had just had one room, his bedroom, but at some point during their second year Mycroft had moved all his things before he came home for the Easter holidays. Sherlock had not been at all happy. However, in time he had adjusted and come to appreciate the space. What it seemed had happened was that Mycroft had taken over his father’s old rooms- his mother, after all, being there so rarely that she didn’t need them- leaving Sherlock to move into those traditionally occupied by the Holmes family heir. John wasn’t sure he would like to live with such strict traditions, but there was no denying Sherlock was lucky, having a bedroom, bathroom, sitting room and study marked for his sole use. John hadn’t quite realised just how obscenely rich Sherlock and Mycroft were until that point.  Each of them had a guest room to themselves, with huge, soft, four poster beds and solid antique furniture. The mansion was in every way old fashioned, decorated only with carved walls and old portraits and everywhere the colours associated with a long line of Slytherin house.  Sherlock’s rooms alone were a reprieve from green and into blue. The sitting room was full of jammed book cases, ancient arm chairs and settees, with tables and lamps at helpful intervals, giving it more the appearance of a library than anything else; and indeed, a lot of the books seemed to be ones that Sherlock had decided to keep on extremely long term loan from the school. The main coffee table was in the middle of the room, low and solidly carved, the only thing in the house that bore the crest of Ravenclaw; which apparently Mycroft had acquired for him after his sorting. The table, in spite of its antique years and quality bore several marks of recent misuse, burns and scratches, and Sherlock finally admitted this was the usual site of his chemistry and potions sets. Molly asked why he hadn’t cleaned the marks off as there were several magical cleaners that could do it, but Sherlock seemed affronted at the very idea. The marks on the table, he said, were his records; when he saw them, he could remember the experiment that made them and the results. Twitchy, he said, touched the table at her peril. In fact, he said, she was banned from tidying his rooms in general as he could never find anything afterwards; but he had revoked it temporarily to allow her to tidy just his sitting area before his friends came.

                Seeing his bedroom, John couldn’t imagine that it was that bad. Sherlock’s room was incredibly neat, with everything in its exact place. In fact there wasn’t much in there; just a large canopied bed with the Holmes’ family crest in the headboard, a side table, a wardrobe and a tall free standing mirror. In one corner there was another armchair with a lamp mounted into the wall beside it, above a shelf also filled with books and papers, clearly Sherlock’s current reading material. There was very little of the personal in the room, except for his school scarf knotted around the handles of the wardrobe, a water and food bowl along with a nesting box and a scattering of toys left on the floor for Agatha, and to John’s great surprise, a framed picture of the four of them that Molly had given them all a copy of for Christmas in the fourth year sitting in the exact middle of the bedside table. It was all far more organised and more tidy than his own bedroom at home, and he felt rather ashamed of himself in comparison, if this was what was considered messy in the Holmes household.

                Then he ventured into Sherlock’s study and realised Sherlock just confined all his mess to one place. Disorder reigned from floor to ceiling- literally, as the ceiling was barely visible under a teeming, moving mass of fluttering notes. These were notes Sherlock had written and enchanted to fly out of the way, keeping them forever and able to summon them down instantly by calling their subject if he needed to refresh his memory. Now they cycled round like a flock of birds, so densely packed that they lowered the ceiling by several inches. Here there were even more book cases than in the sitting room, all jam packed with books wedged on in a jumble, notes and pages of reference material slotted in around them. There was a large desk by the window, piled high with books and paper and parchment, a skull precariously topping the largest of the stacks; bottles of potions and chemicals pushed in amongst them, along with ink and parchment, broken quills, stolen biros and ordinary paper. There was a small space cleared in the front and centre of the desk where things had been roughly pushed aside, presumably where he actually did things, though right now it seemed to be taken up with a half-built Airfix model, which he said he worked on when he was stuck and it would help him think. Even a small kit would take him months to complete. Sherlock didn’t get stuck very often.  

                The mess wasn’t limited to the desk. There were books everywhere, strewn across the floor on their own or in stacks, each one adorned with random objects, abandoned cardigans and jackets, the various organs from an anatomical model, a framed skeleton of a giant rat, a chair leg with the Holmes crest carved into it and the end sharpened to a point, a jar of pickled eggs, an alarm clock, and a stick of butter in a dish with some herbs; all of them, apparently, to do with his experiments. There was on the opposite side of the room to the desk some arm chairs and another low table, the table completely covered with cauldrons and test tubes, magnifying glass and microscope, burnt out matches and scraps of paper, vials of potions, jars of powders, an array of surgical knives. Sherlock said his researches were finally coming to an end, and had been able to produce from underneath a replica model of a sailing ship a full list of his findings, which itemised the chemical make up of a magical ingredient, and which parts were helpful and which parts weren’t, as well as how to distil them into a purer form. John was impressed; he had never really quite realised his friend’s mucking about could have such a serious use. He could revolutionise potions making, just by making use of what the muggles had learnt about Science. John had handed the list back with great care and respect and Sherlock had filed it away underneath his violin, which lay perched on top of a pile of newspapers on one of the armchairs. The bow was on top of the mantelpiece above the fireplace, propped up between an exotic looking slipper and a pile of the enchanted notes, pinned down in place by an old fashioned dagger, still fluttering woefully. John, feeling somehow bad for them, had tugged the knife out and set them free before replacing the knife in its deep groove. After that he had resolved for the sake of his future health not to go in there again, and had left, restricting himself entirely to spending time in Sherlock’s sitting room after that.

                It was this, therefore, that had presumably ended up with them all sleeping in there before his awakening that particular morning. They had been talking long into the night about not very much, although Jim had been uncharacteristically quiet, and had nodded off first. Molly had fallen asleep after him, and John had decided to let them nap a while before waking them up to go to bed. He himself had carried on talking to Sherlock and must, he supposed, have finally fallen asleep himself. Now the discomfort of his position had caused him to wake up even earlier than usual, but he decided to go for his run now rather than pointlessly going back to sleep. He carefully pulled his leg out from behind Jim, who didn’t so much as stir, and rubbed it a little to get the blood circulating before standing and putting his weight on it, trying to ignore the pins and needles. Being earlier than usual, he was able to get down to the entrance hall of the mansion and put his trainers on without being observed by Twitchy, and stepped out into the summer dawn. It was not quite six, but the sun was already almost up, and the air was warm. It was going to be another hot day. He decided to extend his jogging route that morning and rather than heading straight down into town went the other way, circling round the edge of the hill Sherlock’s house lay at the top of before running up one side and down the other, thus coming back to where he had started and proceeding on his usual route. As always he had his front door keys with him and slipped quietly into his own house to visit the other early riser in his family.

                Harriet, as he had expected, was already awake and standing up in her cot, supporting herself on the bars, when he came in. She was always ready and waiting for him like that, making John suspect that something of his magical sixth sense was present in her, though, at a little over a year old, she had yet to show any other signs. She smiled when she saw her brother, but, losing her balance, fell down with a bump.

                “Up.” She demanded pitifully, reaching out to him with chubby arms. John dropped the bars on the cot and obliged, scooping her up in his arms. Not in the least tired, she immediately started beating her little hands against his chest, giggling to herself.

                “Are you beating me up?” John asked. “You little bully.” Ruffling her hair, leaving it standing stiffly at odd angles, he took a firm grip on her hands, and dangled her close to the floor, leaving her squealing in delight as her feet paddled in the air. At that point his mother came in, still in her dressing gown, and yawning said she was going to do breakfast now. John took his sister up again, carrying her down the stairs, before at last yielding to her repeated pleas of “Down, walk” and, keeping her hands in his in order to steady her, let her toddle into the kitchen on her own feet. He couldn’t believe how fast she was growing.

                “I wish you wouldn’t get her so over excited in the mornings, John.” His mother sighed, as she put a cup of tea in front of him and set about cooking breakfast for her husband, who, from the sounds of the tuneless singing coming from the bathroom, was in his customary shower. “She won’t sit still for hours.”

                This was probably true. His little sister had proved herself to be an excitable child and, in John’s opinion, grew more adorable every day now she was out of the awkward crying and pooping stage. For this reason, John wanted to make the most of his time at home and stopped in every day to see his little sister, even if Jim mocked him for his brotherly pride. He hung around for a while, drinking his tea and chatting to his mother, staying long enough to say good morning to his step father before going on his way.

                “Don’t forget about tonight.” His mother cautioned him, seeing him to the door.

                “How could I?” John asked, kissing her cheek. “We’ll be here.”

                And they would be, whether Sherlock protested his disinterest or not. It wasn’t every night that you could turn on your television and see man landing on the moon.

 

*

 

 

                John ran back up the road and got back to Sherlock’s soon after seven, expecting to find Mycroft having just left for work and his friends still asleep. He was on his way to the kitchen, aiming for a glass of water and some fruit to tide him over until his friends decided to rouse themselves and breakfast with him, but before he reached the stairs he heard Mycroft’s unmistakable tones saying his name. John turned, thinking he was being called, but behind through the partially open door, he saw Sherlock pacing, and interrupting his brother in the furious whisper of those wanting to shout without being overheard.

                “People like John!” He said, outraged. “What is that supposed to mean?!”

                “You know what I mean.” Mycroft answered irritably. “The muggle-born.”

                “They are no different to us!”

                “I know that, of course, it’s just a question of pedigree-”

                “Don’t be a fool, Mycroft!”

                “What would you have me do, Sherlock? Certain compromises must be made-”

                “Why compromise when it’s wrong? Just because half the Ministry are falling for it, I thought you had more sense. If you exclude the new muggle borns from Hogwarts, how long will it be until you restrict them from the Ministry, or from the professions, or-”

                “What would you have me do, Sherlock? If the Ministers are for it, even secretly, then-!”

                “You know what you can do, you just won’t-!”

                “My role is not as all powerful as you seem to think! They will trust me over facts and figures, but this is-!”

                “Rubbish! You could stand up to them and you know it!”

                “Sherlock, nobody is about to let them go off on some militant blood purifying regime, but simply failing to inform muggle born children about our world-”

                “Oh, and having a lot of uncontrolled magic in the world, that sounds like a great plan!”

                “Obviously we would need to put systems in place-”

                “You have got to stop sitting on the fence, Mycroft!”

                Silence fell after this uncharacteristic argument. John leant against the wall next to the door, his heart pounding. He couldn’t make sense of what he was hearing and knew he shouldn’t be listening, but he had never heard Sherlock lose his temper so completely before; and Mycroft had never seemed to be phased by anything but he was definitely ruffled now. Finally Sherlock spoke again.

                “You’re too used to thinking in the abstract, Mycroft.” He said, quietly. “You’re thinking in terms of numbers and finances and politics and reputations. You know one compromise will lead to another.”

                “Of course I know that.” Mycroft replied. “I also know, little brother, that if they continue to gain support, war is almost inevitable. However, if we give a little, sooth them, placate them, it might tail off on its own, or at least buy us more time…”

                “This isn’t some investment, Mycroft, this isn’t some ministerial department feeling ignored or misused! You are talking about people. You are talking about John.”

                “Don’t be absurd, Sherlock. It wouldn’t affect those already in our world-”

                “Liar!”

                “-yet.” Mycroft sighed deeply.

                “Mycroft. Listen to me. John Watson is a good man. Better than both of us put together. I have friends staying with us, Mycroft, for goodness sake! Me!  Do you think any of that would have happened without John?!”

                “Nobody is undermining John’s worthiness, Sherlock, but it’s just an unfortunate question of the arbitrary drawing of lines-”

                “But it’s _wrong_ , Mycroft.”

                There was a deep sigh and silence again as Mycroft considered.

                “So, essentially, you would have me join this group I’ve been overlooking these past weeks, and by rights should be arresting?”

                “Yes!”

                “You’ve spent too much time with Gryffindors.” Mycroft said coldly. “You’ve become far too moral. But very well, I shall do as you ask.”

                “Because you know I’m right?”

                “Just so. I’ve spent too much time with your Gryffindors too.” He sighed. “There is a condition though, Sherlock. Once the Order is properly established it will need you too, and that energy of yours.”

                “Of course. I’ll come with you-”

                “No.”

                “What?”

                “You, dear boy, are going to complete your education.”

                “Mycroft!”

                “No arguing, Sherlock. If you think I’ve spent the last six years wading through angry letters from your teachers just to see you drop out now, you have another think coming. Besides, perhaps this will have all blown over by then, and the danger will have passed.”

                “So you’re making me go back to Hogwarts, even when you know I could help deal with this scum much faster, because you want to keep me safe?” Sherlock sounded disgusted, as if ‘safe’ was a filthy word.

                “Yes. Now, I’m late for work.”

                Realising he had been witness to what was possibly the most caring and open conversation the brothers had ever had, and he didn’t have time to get back upstairs, John sprinted back to the front door and stood there putting his running shoes down as if he had just gotten in and taken them off. Mycroft looked suspicious but made no comment, bidding him good morning and excusing himself, heading to the grand fire place at the end of the entrance hall, took up his umbrella, put on his gentlemanly gloves and touched the clock over the mantelpiece that was his permanent personal portkey to a hidden corner in a tube station close to the Ministry of Magic, where he would merge with the other commuters heading for the streets above, just another office worker.

                Sherlock emerged from the side room a moment later, looking cross.

                “What’s wrong?” John asked him.

                “Mycroft is a pompous idiot.” Sherlock answered. “But what’s new? Let’s go and wake the others, the sun has come out and I want to see if Agatha and Ringo can get any higher up the apple tree.”

                “Agatha’s too old for this sort of thing, you know.”

                “I know, that’s why I told Molly to bring Ringo.”

                John laughed but couldn’t tell him off, not after Sherlock had been saying nice things about him. The topic of the conversation- the possibility of cutting off the muggle borns- naturally concerned him, but what could he do about it? If Sherlock knew he had been eavesdropping, he would be too angry to tell John anything. At any rate, there didn’t seem to be too much to worry about. Nothing was definite yet and Mycroft seemed to be on the case. John was reassured and decided to put it out of his mind as best as he could, and concentrate on trying to stir up any interest at all in Sherlock about the moon landing.

 

*

 

 

                The next incident that John would really remember in the future from that summer occurred right at the end of it, when he was in Diagon Alley with Sherlock, Mycroft, his mother and Harriet, getting school supplies. Mycroft hadn’t accompanied them for a number of years, but having business of his own in Diagon Alley had come along and, as such, was there when John got into difficulties.

                He was in the apothecary, buying refills for his potions ingredients, with Harriet’s folded pushchair tucked under one arm so his mother could carry the infant in the tight confines of the shop. Sherlock had instructed Mycroft to get the things he needed for school and was busying himself with more advanced ingredients needed for his research, talking to the shop manager about ordering something in. Sensing he was going to take some time, John went up to the till to be served by the assistant, a young man he vaguely recognised as having been a year or two above him at Hogwarts, though which house he had been in John couldn’t venture to guess. Smiling in recognition, he put his purchases down on the counter.

                “I’m not serving you.” The assistant said.

                “I’m sorry?”

                “I don’t serve Mudbloods.”

                John could have walked away from that, he really could have done. He had heard the term before, of course, had it thrown at him more than once in the school corridors. It had more or less lost its effect now. John was popular enough that he was in the main left alone, and if anyone called him that, there were enough people to get upset on his behalf that the insult no longer hurt him. Sherlock, Jim and Molly were always more upset by the term than he was; Jim’s revenges had landed him in detention more than once during the third and fourth years, even though he had gotten into the habit recently of using the term jokingly himself. At any rate, John could honestly have let it go, and just walked out of the shop. In fact, he turned to do just that, but the shop assistant wasn’t done yet.

                “Don’t show your face here again, Mudblood. Especially not with your filthy Muggle mother and her grotesque little puppy.”

                John had heard enough. He didn’t even really have time to process the insult properly, to ponder how he had chosen to join this world and the trouble in it, whereas his mother and sister were just innocents, he didn’t think about what he was trying to imply about his family before the anger was upon him and he knew he couldn’t let it pass. He prepared to take a swing at the assistant, only to find his punch blocked by Mycroft’s umbrella.

                “Now, John, settle down.” He said, with a slight cold smile. “Violence is beneath you.” He turned to the shop assistant. “Is there a problem?”

                “Nothing that need concern you, Mr Holmes, sir.” The assistant said petulantly.

                “Ah, but it does concern me.” Mycroft answered. “Because it sounded like you just insulted my friend and this dear lady.”

                “Your friend is muggle-born, sir.”

                “Yes, I’m well aware of that, but I rather think his disadvantaged circumstances deserve our pity rather than our condemnation, don’t you?”

                John couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows at that one. Mycroft, it seemed, while being appalled by racism towards the muggle borns was a full believer in it being a matter of social class.

                “Never the less,” Mycroft continued. “This young man is very talented and I will not have him treated with disrespect. Is that understood?”

                “Why? What are you going to do?”

                “The same thing I did to your brother.” Mycroft smiled. “It was very unfortunate that his career should have ended so prematurely.”

                “…fine, I’ll serve him.”

                “First, you will apologise to John and to this worthy lady here.”

                The shop assistant, glaring daggers but clearly not brave enough to disobey, did so.

                “Good.” Mycroft said. “Now then, we will take our custom elsewhere.”

                With that, he swept out of the shop, leaving the others to follow. John didn’t say anything to Mycroft, not because he wasn’t grateful, but because he sensed some deep anger simmering beneath the surface. Mycroft remained in a bad mood the rest of the day, though he very graciously put John’s mother’s arm through his own and insisted on escorting her until he had to leave them.

                Looking on, John felt reassured. Pompous he may be, and undoubtedly a snob, but Mycroft seemed firmly on the side of the muggle-borns.

 

*

 

 

                They were nearly an hour into their journey on the Hogwarts Express that September before they were all together in their usual compartment right at the far end of the train. Sherlock, naturally, had gone to skulk in his customary seat straight away but John, Molly and Jim had been helping the tiny first years move their trunks and find seats, after which Jim had excused himself to go and greet some friends from his house and was gone for some time. When they were finally all together again, watching Ringo trying to entice his irritated mother to play on the floor, Sherlock began to tell them about his research paper, which was apparently almost ready; he just had to write up his findings ready to be presented. He didn’t sound thrilled at the prospect and was thinking of giving it up; or was hoping, John suspected, that if he said he was going to, they would volunteer to write it for hm. Before any of them broke, however, they were interrupted. There was a tap on the door to their compartment and a moment later it was slid open. River Waters was standing there, looking glamorous as usual. John wasn’t convinced her long red hair had been cut once the entire time they had been at Hogwarts and it fell in loose curls down past her slim hips. John had been distracted by it in Care of Magical Creatures more than once, and had once or twice had the good opportunity to be partnered with River to do the practicals, where he had found that if he made her laugh, she would toss her head back and her hair would ripple down its whole length with her uncontrollable laughter. As such, when she asked if she could have a private word with him, John wasn’t going to say no.

                “What’s up?” He asked, shutting the door to the compartment behind him. “Did you have a good summer?”

                “It’s my birthday, John.”

                “Oh, really? Happy birthday.”

                “Thanks.” She moved closer to him, putting her hand out to touch his elbow. “Do you know what that means?”

                “Hmm, well.” He wanted to tell her he couldn’t think with her standing so close to him. “You must be the oldest in the year.”

                She laughed prettily. “It means I’ve been of age for a whole _year_ , John.” She was moving much closer to him. “It means, for a whole year, I’ve been _legally_ an _adult_.”

                John didn’t have time to reply as it was at that point that she put her hands on his chest, pushed him back into the door and kissed him enthusiastically. John was surprised, but pleasantly so. River was, after all, very pretty and he finally had an excuse to do what he had always wanted to and play with her beautiful hair. On the other hand, this was a little out of nowhere and he wasn’t entirely sure it was honourable to be kissing a girl he wasn’t dating. Still, she seemed to be enjoying it, so it couldn’t be too wrong, could it?

                The problem was, his head was resting against the glass of the door and John could hear every word his friends were saying, even distracted as he was.

                “Oh!” Molly said. “She’s kissing John!”

                “Looks like he’s kissing her to me.” Jim answered.

                “I don’t know, he looks like he can’t make up his mind whether he should carry on or not.”

                “Is she pretty?” Sherlock asked.

                “Yes, very.”

                “He’ll carry on.”

               

 *

 

                Sherlock didn’t like it. This didn’t surprise John very much; Sherlock had been difficult enough when Jim and Molly had started dating and sometimes wanted time alone together. The ideas that John might spend significant lengths of time away from them, or that River would join them sometimes, were equally abhorrent to him. According to Molly, Sherlock was _trying_ to be polite, but just never managed to _succeed_. At first River tried too, returning his obvious hostility with friendliness, but finally, things came to breaking point.

                They were at breakfast. Sherlock hadn’t come for several days, probably to avoid River, but that day he came. After a few moments, he pulled Agatha out of his seemingly bottomless pocket and put her down on the table, letting her wander over to the platter of bacon and eat contentedly.

                “Is that a ferret?” River asked.

                “Yes, this is Agatha.” John said, sensing her disquiet. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like ferrets?”

                “No, that’s not it, I love animals.” She said. “I just don’t think you should spoil them so much. Anyway, bacon probably isn’t good for her and it probably isn’t hygienic to have her on the table.”

                Sherlock looked livid and John decided it would be prudent to hasten River away at that point. She didn’t join them for meals again, the two of them deciding it would be easier all round if they ate separately, or John occasionally went over to the Hufflepuff table;  but mostly spending time together in the evenings or in the breaks, once they had finished eating. As far as girlfriends went, River was incredibly understanding and low maintenance, quite content if they didn’t spend any great length of time together for a few days because John was with his friends, or studying, or at Quidditch practice. In that sense, they lived very separate lives; nobody could think of them as a couple, they just taking some quiet time now and then to talk and laugh and mess around and kiss. Quite a lot of kissing, as it turned out River was both eager and adventurous. John found in spite of the massive work load and the added pressure of being determined to take the Quidditch cup for Gryffindor before he left, he was happier than ever. He hated to think that they would be leaving Hogwarts forever soon, and always felt slightly guilty that he wasn’t spending enough time with his friends.

                The thing was, they were all busy too. For John, it was Quidditch; for Molly, she was studying harder than ever, determined to get good grades so she would be accepted to work at St Mungos, the major wizard hospital; for Sherlock it was the final vital stages of his research, preparing to present it in just a few months’ time; and for Jim it was the problem of being too popular. He had always had friends other than the four of them, but it was only this year that he had started to excuse himself during breaks or lunchtimes to go and talk to them. He never took Molly on these jaunts with him. John wondered if Jim was starting to drift apart from them a little, but his only real problem with it was his neglect of Molly. She however assured John she didn’t mind, saying Jim was doing it in part to give her time to study. John supposed all this was just a natural part of growing up and becoming adults. All in all, he was pretty content as the first term rushed past at a hundred miles an hour. He was immensely glad his mother hadn’t insisted him on taking A-levels this year like he had been made to do O-levels in his OWL year. There was simply no way he could have done it, the work load for NEWT was almost unbearable. They had discussed it briefly last year, but his mother had accepted his judgement that he was more likely to end up living his working life out in the wizard world. He still hoped to become a healer, in spite of the extra training he would need after Hogwarts. Seeing Molly working so hard always made him feel slightly guilty, like he should be doing more too- but Gryffindor _still_ hadn’t taken the Quidditch cup; it was their last chance and with Moran now acting as captain, it was a very good one.

                It was at a Saturday practise at the beginning of October that John saw two things that left him baffled. They were having a practise match of a kind, their chasers going against their keeper, their seeker giving the snitch a five minute head start and then going after it, and he and Moran trying to keep their chasers from scoring. To avoid accidentally injuring any of their players, they were using practise bludgers that Sherlock had invented on an idle afternoon the previous year, simply compacted balls of dried mud, compressed enough so that the size and weight was equivalent to that of a bludger, enchanted so they could be hit but would painlessly explode on impact with a player. The Gryffindor team had been so pleased with his gift that they had made sure that none of the disgruntled first and second years complained about his presence in their common room. Which was probably why Sherlock had done it. John had just nailed Moritz in the back of the hand with one, knocking the quaffle out of his hands, and, proud of the accuracy of his shot, couldn’t help glancing over at the stands. River had accompanied him down to the pitch that morning and had been sitting knitting as she watched. He wanted to know if she had seen his triumph. It quickly became obvious that she hadn’t. She was too busy enthusiastically kissing a Ravenclaw boy from the year below.

                John found that he wasn’t so much angry as _surprised_. It was true he was seriously considering tossing his bat at the guy’s head, but even that was more resentment than anger. Just then Moran’s pass to him hit him on the shoulder, exploding dry soil all down the side of his robes, and his team mates laughed. Deciding not to make a scene and glad that none of his team mates seemed to have noticed River’s behaviour, John put his mind back in the game as much as he could, glancing back at his now, he suspected, _ex_ -girlfriend and was relieved to see that the Ravenclaw had gone.

                When the practise ended, he landed softly on the turf and bid his team mates to go on ahead, waiting until they had all disappeared towards the changing rooms before going over to River, who smiled at his approach, finished her row, and then laid her knitting aside to speak to him.

                “John, you were great.” She said.

                “Thanks.” He twisted his broom in his hands and then laid it against the seat along with his bat. “What was that?”

                “What was what?”

                “With the Ravenclaw guy?”

                “Oh, gosh, sorry, he’s on the Quidditch team too, isn’t he? I forgot all about that. Well don’t worry, he only stopped in for a minute, I don’t think he saw anything.”

                “No.” John said quietly. “Probably not, when he was kissing you the whole time.”

                “Oh, I know, he’s nowhere near as sweet about it as you are. He rushes it.” She patted John’s arm comfortingly. John stared at her and for a moment she looked confused, and then her hands flew to her mouth in horror. “Oh, John, you didn’t know?!”

                “No. What didn’t I know?”

                “Oh, John.” She looked absolutely aghast. “I’m so, so, sorry. I would never- well, I thought you knew. The others all knew, I never thought for a second-”

                “Others?” John asked. “How many others?”

                “It varies. Three, right now.” She chewed her lip, horrified.

                “Right. So you have four boyfriends.”

                “No! No, oh, John, you poor thing, I should have realised you misunderstood… if I had, then I swear-”

                “Misunderstood? Right. But, you see, River, normally when a girl snogs you on a regular basis you sort of assume she’s your girlfriend.”

                “But that’s the problem!” She said, sounding exasperated. “Relationships at our age are so restrictive! We’re just a bag full of adolescence and rampaging hormones, it’s pointless to deny it. What we should be focusing on is building emotional connections with friends and family and just indulging the physical until it settles down! That’s why I don’t date!”

                There was a slight, awkward pause.

                “John, I promise you, I thought you felt the same way. I mean, you never actually _asked_ me out and I never _said_ I was your girlfriend, so I thought… I feel awful, John, really. I’m so sorry.”

                There was another awkward pause.

                “Right. Okay.” John stood up. “Well, in that case, I think it’s best if we break up.” He nodded. “Not that you thought we were dating. But still.”

                “I get it.” She said. “No more kissing.”

                “I didn’t say that.” John muttered. River was very pretty. And kissing her was good fun.  She smiled and leant towards him. John went to kiss her, but then finally, his morality won out and he pushed her away, gently. “Better not.” He said.

                “Alright.” She answered.  “Bye, John.”

                “See you, River.”

                He left, heading for the changing rooms. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but after a minute simply concluded there was nothing more to be thought about it. They had been at cross purposes, but River hadn’t deliberately deceived him. She was just weird. John nodded slightly to himself. This was just like every time Sherlock did something incomprehensible to the rest of the human race. You just had to nod and accept the fact that he meant well, but was weird.

                This conclusion reached, he began to pay more attention to his surroundings and realised that Moran was outside the changing rooms talking to Jim. John had seen them together on occasion so it wasn’t altogether surprising; or at least not beyond the idea that the perpetual loner Moran had made a friend. Jim hadn’t noticed John’s approach, too busy talking enthusiastically to Moran.

                “We’re in right at the start of things, Seb.” He was saying, excited. “This is just the start of it. We’re so close, we just have to-”

                “Beginning of what?”  John asked, as much to make them aware of his presence as anything else.

                “We’re looking for buried treasure.” Jim said, draping his arm around John’s shoulder. Moran nodded at John and slipped off into the changing room. “Want in?”

                “No, you’re alright.” John shrugged him off. “Sherlock might.”

                “Oh, this isn’t his kind of treasure.”

                “What is it? Girls?”

                They both laughed . Sherlock’s apparent lack of interest in romance and sheer ignorance about it was a source of amusement now and then.

                “Seriously though, mate.” John said. “Next time just tell me if it’s none of my business.”

                “Righty-o.” Jim said in his sing song voice, poking John in the face. “In that case, John Watson, you just keep your big fat Gryffindor nose out of my business.”

                John laughed again. “Look, hang on a second while I change and I’ll come back up to the castle with you. It must be dinner time by now.”

                “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Johnny-boy.”

                John went into the changing room, but Moran had already finished and, praising John for his hard work, quietly left.

 

*

 

 

                “Oh. I assumed you’d noticed by now.” Sherlock said. “I seem to have underestimated your obliviousness again. Sorry, John.”

                They were in Gryffindor common room, sitting around the fire. Sherlock was making notes on a side table. Literally on a side table. The house elves would clean it off before morning, but apparently the process helped him. Molly had one of their text books on her lap, searching for an answer to something, Jim, on one of his rare visits, perched on the arm of her chair, helping. John had just explained about River and this was the sympathy he got.

                Molly, at least, had more tact. “Oh, John, that’s awful!” She cried. “Are you okay?”

                “Yeah, Molly, I’m fine, I wasn’t that serious either.” This, at least, was true. He turned to Sherlock. “Does that mean you knew and you didn’t tell me?”

                “Of course I knew.” Sherlock said, choosing to ignore the other half of the question. “I suspected ever since I saw Jim kissing her the day after my birthday.”

                “I did not!” Jim protested.

                “Yes you did.” Sherlock said, then reconsidered. “Or, at least, she kissed you.”

                “Yeah, well, I told her no.”

                “Yes, afterwards.”

                “I pushed her off!”

                “Yes… eventually.”

                Molly got to her feet, slapping Jim round the face. As he recoiled she turned to leave, flushing, but he grabbed her hand before she could.

                “Molly!” He said. “She kissed me, I was just surprised! I didn’t want to! Why would I?”

                “Let go of me.” She said, irritated, trying to pull free. He kept his grip.

                “Molly…” He said, moaning. He started kissing her hand. “Molly, Molly, Molly… I love you…”

                “Jim, shut up.”

                “I adore you…”

                “Jim, I mean it!”

                “I’d walk a hundred thousand miles for you…”

                “Jim, you’re making a scene.”

                “Barefoot.”

                “Jim!”

                “Over hot coals and sharp bits and mud-”

                “Oh, alright, alright.” Molly finally broke, laughing, though still extremely red in the face due to their becoming the centre of attention in the common room. “You’re forgiven.” She said, good naturedly. “Now shut up.” She pecked his cheek swiftly and sat back down.

                 “Why don’t you make me?” He asked, leaning in towards her. Molly tilted her head towards him, but Jim seemed to change his mind at the last second and put his arm round her shoulders instead. John thought this was odd but would have thought no more of it had he not noticed that Sherlock’s gaze had moved elsewhere. He was looking towards the back of the common room, where the stairs were. Moran was standing there. John, confused, looked back towards Jim, but couldn’t tell if he had noticed the new arrival or not.

                “Listen, Johnny-boy, I’m sorry.” Jim was saying. “I swear, she forced herself on me, honestly. I was going to tell you, but…” he glanced guiltily at Molly.

                “Don’t worry about it.” John said. “It seems like she did it to everyone.”

                “Jim.” Moran said, coming over to them. “Can I have a word?”

                “Not now.”

                Moran said nothing, but didn’t move. Jim glared at him, then got up.

                “Urrgh, fine, but this had better be good!”

                The two of them withdrew to the portrait hole, out of earshot, but still in John’s eye line. It became obvious quite quickly that they were arguing. Sebastian’s face remained largely impassive, but an irritated frown was growing more pronounced on his face. Jim’s, on the other hand, was alive with range, twisted and contorted. John decided to go over and intervene before it came to blows.

                “-it’s useless, he loves John too much. How many times?” Jim was saying, angry.

                “I’m just saying you need to be careful about who-”

                “I don’t need you to tell me to be careful!”

                “Jim, what’s going on?” John asked, taking a step closer. “Are you alright?”

                “Oh, John, would you just go away?!” Livid now, Jim hissed his spiteful words right into John’s face. “You’re so nosy, always trying to see what’s going on, but you never spot it. You’re so blind and yet you try to go around spying on people-”

                “That’s enough!” John answered. “I just came over to see if you were alright. That’s all. If you don’t like it, fine! I won’t bother!”  Annoyed, he turned and began to head back into the common room.

                “Do you know what happened to the nosy little cat, Johnny-boy?” Jim called after him. “Curiosity killed it.”

                John ignored him, going back over to his chair and flopping down in it, annoyed. Molly looked worried.

                “Is he okay?”

                “He’s fine, but apparently I’m ‘nosy’.”

                “You are nosy.” Sherlock said.

                “Molly.” Jim came over. He refused to look at John. “Let’s take a walk before curfew.”

                “Oh, but…”

                “Come on. I don’t like the atmosphere in here.” He took her by the hand and dragged her off.

                John watched until they were gone and then said “Jim’s in a really bad mood today.”

                “Mm.” Sherlock said, clearly not listening as he continued to write on the table top.

               

*

 

               

                The following day saw John receive two apologies. The first was a letter, handed to him at breakfast by a Hufflepuff first year. He almost didn’t read it, fearing another love letter- his strange appeal to the youngest in the school still prevailing- but eventually opened it up. It was actually a letter of apology from River, begging him not to think too badly of her and hoping she hadn’t hurt him too much. Oddly moved by it, he turned and looked towards the Hufflepuff table, where he saw River was watching him anxiously. It might have been the first time in all seven years at the school he had seen her doing anything other than smiling. Judging by her paleness, she hadn’t slept much at all the night before. John waved at her and smiled to show there were no hard feelings, and she looked greatly relieved, grinning back. John was trying not to analyse his own feelings too closely. There was a little hurt perhaps, but mostly bewilderment, wondering if he gave off the aura of someone not interested in commitment. He very nearly made the mistake of asking Sherlock, but just then, Jim arrived, looking sullen. He didn’t sit.

                “Morning, John.” He said.

                “Hello.” John answered, guardedly, wondering if Jim was planning on renewing the fight. Silence fell.

                “Look, about yesterday.” Jim said, finally. “I was just in a bad mood.”

                “I noticed.”

                “Yeah, well, just… don’t take it personally.”

                “I didn’t.”

                “Liar.” Sherlock said. “For goodness sake, Jim, sit down. He forgives you.”

                “I didn’t say that.” John said.

                “You were about to.”

                “That’s not the point!”

                “Jim, just sit down.”

                Jim sat and smiled. “Aww, Sherley, were you worried? You were worried we were going to fight for ages and be all split up.”

                “No I wasn’t.” Sherlock answered. “Molly was obviously going to make you apologise, she always does it to me.  Anyway, John always forgives people when they say sorry, even if they don’t mean it.”

                John frowned at this. “No I wouldn’t, not if they were being insincere.”

                “Yes you do.” Sherlock answered. “Every time I apologise to you, for a start.”

                “So you’re telling me, every single time you’ve had to apologise to me in the last seven years, you haven’t meant it?”

                “No, of course not.”

                “Fine, then I retract my forgiveness.”

                “What? Don’t be ridiculous!”

                “I’m not, if you aren’t sorry then I’m not forgiving you. So let’s see… are we just counting the times you’ve said the _word_ sorry? Because then I think there will only be about two. Or is it all the times you’ve _acted_ sorry, in which case we could be here a while. I think it started on the train in the first year when you let your ferret eat my first ever chocolate frog-”

                “Boys, boys!” Jim interrupted. “Can you give it a rest for five minutes? Mommy wants to eat breakfast in peace!”

                “He started it.” Sherlock said.

                “More importantly,” John asked. “Why are you ‘mommy’?”

                It took the arrival of Molly to finally settle down the good natured bickering and teasing, and they at last turned their attention to their food and the mountain of homework they were supposed to have done by Monday. All except Sherlock, who, in spite of an outstanding performance in his OWLs two years before, had still to submit a single piece of homework for any subject. Molly sometimes told him off for being proud of this, but John could half understand the attraction and nobility of such long-continued defiance and suspected Molly could too.

                “I’ll make it up to you properly, Johnny-boy.” Jim said later, slapping him on the back as they left the breakfast hall. “Next Hogsmeade trip we get, I’ll buy you a drink.”

                “I’ll hold you to that.”

 

*

 

 

                The next Hogsmeade trip, as it turned out, was on the last day of October. Hogwarts certainly knew how to do Halloween right; classes that day were cancelled, making it a three-day weekend, and the trip into Hogsmeade and the promise of a hearty feast that night were enough to raise most spirits in the castle. For John, it was a good enough excuse to stop worrying about studying or Quidditch for a day and just enjoy it. If only his friends were more compliant.

                “Sherlock, you’re coming.”

                “No, I’m not.”

                “You do know it’s our last year here, don’t you? We only have two or three more trips.”

                “And the school will be quiet.” Sherlock answered. “At last. I have things to be getting on with.”

                “Hmm, yes, let’s think what vital work you’ll do.” John paused theatrically. “Playing your violin? Clipping Agatha’s claws? Analysing soil?”

                Sherlock glared.

                “Oh, come on, Sherlock. Your research is finished, you have no excuse.”

                “If you must know, I plan on-”

                “No, not interested, you’re coming.”

                “You can’t make me.”

                “I will send Molly down.”

                “Send her, why would I care?”

                “I’ll tell my mom you’re withdrawing from us.”

                Sherlock protested, but nevertheless, when they went down to the village Sherlock went too.

                The weather was drawing in and out in the middle of nowhere as they were, it was getting colder and colder. John had never quite lost the habit of wearing warm jumpers and jackets, even when he had become acclimatised to the British climate; but today he wasn’t the only one wrapped up warm. Most of the students were in coats and their school scarves, including Sherlock and Molly. Jim had his Slytherin scarf on, tied in front of him, but had left off his coat in favour of a thick cardigan over a tightly fitted and brightly coloured shirt. John did ask him how he was planning on not freezing to death, but Jim had just laughed and said “You’re just jealous you don’t look this good, Johnny-boy.”

                Indeed, Jim did seem to have been giving much more attention to his appearance nowadays, appearing every morning with perfectly styled hair and suspected trimmed eyebrows. John supposed it must be for Molly’s benefit, who did seem to appreciate it. John, however, decided he would much rather be warm than fashionable and kept his jacket firmly zipped up as they walked down into the village.

                Sherlock was sulking, turning his coat collar up against the wind and making it obvious he didn’t want to be there. John ignored him, knowing Sherlock was only refusing to cheer up in order to prove a point.  They wandered down the high street, admiring the elaborately carved Jack-o-Lanterns and candle arrangements put up in the streets, while the shops all featured cheery displays in their windows, advertising sales and specials in honour of the festival as the shop keepers cashed in. They were just turning to go into Honeydukes sweet shop, to stock up on some much needed revision supplies, when Sherlock caught hold of Molly’s arm.

                “Come with me.” He commanded.

                “Where are we going?” John asked.

                “Not you. We’ll meet you at the Three Broomsticks.” Without further ado, he left, pulling the helpless Molly with him. Shrugging, John went into the sweet shop to catch up with Jim and explain the sudden absence of his girlfriend.

                “Oh.” Jim muttered. “I should have known he was onto me.”

                “What?”

                “Nothing. Look at these! They’re new, they make you breathe fire out your mouth!”

                “I really just want something that’s easy to eat.” John replied. After spending so much time in the wizard world, the novelty of food that didn’t want to be eaten had most definitely worn off.

                Eventually, restocked with the necessary study aids, John and Jim headed across to the Three Broomsticks. Outside it was miserably cold and beginning to drizzle, so John was expecting it to be packed out with their fellow students; but in reality, the pub was unusually quiet.

                “Everyone’s gone back up to the castle.” Jim said. “Not much to do here on a day like this. Everyone wants to get back ready for the feast. And so do I, but no, we’re stuck here waiting on the whims of Sherlock Holmes.”  He threw himself into a chair at one of the empty tables with a huff of displeasure. “What’s with him just going off with Molly anyway? I thought the four of us were meant to stick together.”

                “I thought you knew where he was.” John answered. “Didn’t you say he was ‘on to’ you?”

                “Doesn’t mean I know where he’s gone.” Jim said, sulkily.

                “Well, you know something, which is more than me.” John replied, sitting down too. “Jim, what’s going on?”

                “Don’t interrogate me, Johnny-boy.”

                “Pretty sure an interrogation has to have more than one question.”

                Jim looked at him and then cracked, chuckling. “Direct as always. Alright, but I’m getting a drink first.”

                “Don’t forget, you owe me one.”

                Once adequately supplied with their drinks, John sat back in his chair, arms folded, waiting. He had learnt his lesson about how Sherlock and Jim liked to wriggle out of questions they didn’t want to answer, Jim especially. He wasn’t going to let this one get away from him. Seeing his expression, Jim gave a deep frustrated sigh before speaking.

                “John, how did you break up with River?”

                This was not what John had been expecting. “What?”

                “I mean, you still get on alright, don’t you? And she wasn’t too upset. So what did you do?”

                “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly have much of a choice.” John reminded him. “According to her we were never going out to start with.”

                “And she was cheating on you.”

                “Yeah, but never mind that, what are you on about? Are you planning on dumping Molly?”

                “Oh, so you can deduce things after all. Well done.”

                “Why?! You two are still all over each other! Don’t you like her now?”

                “I like her.” Jim said. “Just… I don’t know, I can’t go out with her much longer.”

                “Why not?”

                Jim just shrugged. Something suddenly occurred to John.

                “Is this something to do with the thing with Moran?”

                “What?” Jim looked confused, but John could have sworn that before that, just for half a second, there had been a glimmer of concern in his eyes.

                “Is this what you were rowing with Moran about? Has he got something on you?”

                Jim burst out laughing. “Oh, John, what are you on about? I think someone’s been spending too much time with Sherlock!”

                “Well, sorry.” John huffed. “But I don’t see why else you would want to split up with Molly.”

                Jim shrugged. “Sherley doesn’t like it though.” He said. “You know what he’s like, he hates it when anything changes. I think he’s trying to keep me away from Molly so I can’t break up with her.”

                “Good!”

                “Oh, don’t you start.” Jim sighed. “Look… it’s going to have to happen eventually. Just saying.”

                “But you don’t really want to?”

                Another shrug. “I don’t mind.”

                “You mean you don’t know. Look, Jim, just don’t do anything until you’ve made up your mind. And don’t break up with her just because you think you’ve made up your mind and you’re too stubborn to admit you’re having second thoughts.”

                “In other words, just don’t break up with her.”

                “Preferably.”

                Jim sighed in frustration.  “You’re as bad as him.”

                At that moment, the him in question entered, with considerably tidier hair than the last time they had seen him. It was immediately obvious even to John that Sherlock had paid a visit to the hair dressing salon opposite Honeydukes on the high street, even though this was unheard of. Unlike John, who made sure to have his hair cut every time he was home, Sherlock could only ever be persuaded to bother when it was falling in his eyes and getting in the way; and usually only then because John’s mother refused to have him in the house unless he let her tidy it up for him. He was followed in by Molly, who had also had her hair cut and styled. John did not know enough about women’s hair to identify exactly what had been done to it, but it was shorter and shaped. It suited her; at least more than her usual ponytail had. John had to force himself to blink. He hated it when Molly did this; looking normal most of the time, and then just occasionally changing her hair or her clothes and looking stunning when he wasn’t prepared for it, and then he had to remember not to stare or Jim would kill him. Next to him, Jim was chuckling.

                “I bet she told him she would only get a hair cut if he had one too.” He said. “He probably thought if she looked better I might not break up with her.” He shook his head. “Ha, that’s adorable.”

                “Don’t let him hear you say that.” John warned, smiling as their friends came to join them. Jim smiled at Molly and complimented her, making her smile, and then moved on to tease Sherlock, reaching over to mess his hair up again until Sherlock got annoyed and pushed him off, at which point they began to bicker like children.

                Business as usual. John, trying not to show any concern in front of Molly, sipped at his drink and waited for the fight to either blow itself out or reach intervention level. On this occasion it ended with laughter, or at least with Jim laughing, Molly giggling in spite of herself, and Sherlock sulking. Watching them quietly, John hoped Jim would reconsider. He and Molly were good for each other. More than once, and reluctant as he was to admit it, John had noticed a dark streak in both Sherlock and Jim; and Molly was the one who stopped them from getting into too much trouble. He just hoped they would be alright when they left Hogwarts. That was something he hoped for all of them. 


	8. Chapter Four Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7th Year Part 2/4. Uploaded because the lovely Becstarrr asked me to finish posting these :) Sorry for the long wait!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part… I’m sorry, really. Blame Scooby for liking this kind of angst :P But… it is necessary for the story, too; you’ll see what I mean by the end of the fic.

 

 

Chapter Four Part 2/4

                They reached Christmas 1969 unscathed. Jim hadn’t broken it off with Molly, and hadn’t mentioned it again. It was true he was spending less time with them than ever, but he looked well enough, so John decided it must have just been a passing whim or a bad patch and put it out of his mind. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem that the holiday was going to be much of a break, the amount of homework they had piled on them, including a particularly nasty Herbology essay categorising all the known poisonous plants that were native to the United Kingdom and explaining their uses, similarities and differences. John didn’t expect to ever finish it, especially not when his little sister was around. Now twenty months old and more independent than ever, Harriet seemed to be of the opinion that her brother wasn’t home nearly enough and when he was all his time should be spent with her.

                John was amazed how far she had come on since the summer. For one thing, she had gotten over the confusion about John’s name. When she had first learnt to say it, her brother hadn’t been there; and apparently for some time had been under the impression that ‘John’ was the word for a letter, probably because of all the times her parents had shown her one and said it was from him. Unfortunately, she still hadn’t gotten over her misapprehension about Sherlock’s name. She had learnt his name at the end of last summer, though she found it hard to say, so John was surprised to come home this time and find that she was carting round a little black sheep plushie, her favourite toy, which appeared to be named ‘Sherlock’.  His mother cleared up the mystery somewhat when she explained that Harriet seemed to remember the word, but after Sherlock’s long absence seemed to have forgotten exactly what it meant, and now seemed to use it to describe anything and anyone that was fluffy or had curly hair. John thought this was hilarious. He wasn’t sure Sherlock would agree.

                The day before Christmas Eve, John was making another half hearted attempt at the Herbology essay when Harriet toddled in with Sherlock Sheep.

                “John.” She said.

                “Hang on.” John tried. “Let me just finish this little bit, okay?”

                Reasoning with a child under two, unsurprisingly, was ineffectual. Harriet came and plonked herself down on his feet, looking at him reprovingly for not giving her his immediate attention. Laughing, John pulled her onto his lap and did his best to amuse her by bouncing her on his knees while he at least scribbled down a half-hearted end to his sentence. This was easier said than done with a small sheep bouncing about over his work and smudging the ink.

                “Harry!” John pulled the sheep off his work. Harriet giggled and made it bounce across her brother’s chest instead. John sighed and put the parchment aside, deciding that later he would bargain with Sherlock and try to persuade his friend to restore it for him, John himself always having to erase everything and write it out again. Perhaps he could argue it was Sherlock’s fault, as it was his namesake that had caused the problem. It seemed that no matter what form he was in, Sherlock somehow managed to stop him from doing his homework.

                At that moment, he heard a sharp crack that signalled his friend had appeared in the hall. John sighed. Sherlock had, by special arrangement, taken his apparition test on his seventeenth birthday; probably a result of his driving Mycroft to distraction about it. He had of course passed, and had ever since used the skill whenever he possibly could. It had been an awkward few months, when John had refused to do side-along apparition with him and Sherlock had to wait for all his friends to turn seventeen and pass their tests too. Still, it had made visiting one another in the holidays much easier, something Sherlock took full advantage of, and had got into the habit of appearing suddenly in John’s bedroom during the holidays. Never mind the shock it gave John every time, if Harriet was in the room or upstairs anywhere, the loud noise and sudden appearance would always make her cry and in the end, John had been forced to have a word with his friend, asking him to  stop. After that, Sherlock only ever apparated  into the front hall next to the door. John couldn’t bring himself to try and explain that this didn’t really help as the sound echoed around the house, not when Sherlock was obviously at least trying to be considerate. He wasn’t very good at it, but he hadn’t had much practice.

                There was also Dean to think about. Over the years, his step father had never truly grown comfortable with magic, however accepting he was. Dean always tried to hide his discomfort and went out of his way to try and understand, asking John about his lessons and what he had learnt, asking questions John couldn’t even answer about how magic worked and where it came from. He was making such an effort that John couldn’t be angry with him for avoiding visiting Diagon Alley or looking slightly ill whenever Sherlock appeared suddenly and startled him.  He may have pushed himself to talk about magic, but he obviously didn’t like seeing it. On this occasion, as on so many others, the sharp crack indicating Sherlock’s appearance was followed by Harriet bursting into tears, Dean cursing in the kitchen and his wife telling him off.

                “Don’t cry, Harry, it’s just Sherlock.” John sighed, hugging her tightly and rubbing her back until her wailing turned into little hiccupping sobs, before carrying her downstairs to meet Sherlock. His mother was telling him off in the hall.

                “Really, Sherlock, Dean just broke another of my good cups.”

                “Sorry, Mrs Watson.”

                “Well, can’t you apparate a little more quietly?”

“It doesn’t work like that, Mrs Watson.”

“Oh… well, I think you’d better do it out in the garage then dear, we can tell the neighbours it’s the car backfiring.”

“But you keep the through door locked. You won’t hear me knocking.”

“Oh, we’ll soon sort you a key out Sherlock, don’t you worry about that.”

“Mom, if you do that we’ll never be rid of him.” John said, arriving at the bottom of the stairs. “Take Harry off me, the noise scared her again.”

Sherlock stood and tried to look innocent. John’s mother reached out her arms for her daughter but Harry didn’t want to go. She had spotted their guest.

“Sherlock!” She said, delightedly. “Sherlock!” She strained in John’s arms, trying to reach him.

Sherlock took a step backwards, probably, John thought, without even realising it. “I’m amazed she still remembers me.” He said.

“Yeah, well, you’d better take her off me.” John answered, deciding not to break Harriet’s confusion to him yet, and try to explain that he was just _a_ ‘sherlock’ to her.

“I don’t hold babies.”

“Sherlock, she’s almost two and you haven’t held her yet.”

“That’s because, as I said, I don’t hold babies.”

“Yes you do.” Mrs Hudson said brusquely, taking her daughter from John and dumping her on Sherlock with such swiftness that he had no choice but to hold her or else let her fall. “Now stop being so silly.”

Sherlock looked disdainfully at Harriet and held her out at arm’s length to John.

“No.” John said, holding his arms up defensively. “If I take her before she gets a cuddle then she’ll cry.”

“A what?”

“A cuddle, Sherlock, a cuddle. Come on. She’s only a baby.”

“Cuggle bagy.” Harriet agreed, doing her best reproachful look.

 “No.”

“Sherlock.” John’s mother gave him a look. Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh and resentfully pulled Harriet closer to him, although not actually touching him. Harriet didn’t care, she was now in range.

“Sherlock sherlock sherlock” she said happily, yanking on the hair closest to his right ear. Sherlock understandably tried to move her away again, which didn’t help his situation as she clung to his curls all the tighter, working her little hands into them in determination, letting Sherlock sheep drop to the floor. John laughed. Sherlock glared.

“Get her off me.” He commanded. John laughed more.

“No, Harriet.” His mother said, detaching the little girl as gently as she could. “That’s naughty.”

“Sherlock.” She whined.

“Aww, she likes you.” John smiled.

“Likes me?” Sherlock repeated, baffled. “And people wonder why I don’t like babies.”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 It was lucky John was in the kitchen keeping an eye on Harriet, or he wouldn’t have noticed the owl tapping on the glass. It was Christmas day, but sadly it was more grey than white, with intermittent drizzle turning the snow of the last week into slush. Still, inside the Watson household, all was merry and bright. Sherlock and Mycroft had not long arrived, and John had swapped places with his mother so she could go and say hello. It was not a good time to leave Harriet alone in the kitchen, with his mother’s Christmas dinner in the mid-stages of assembly sitting in pots and pans around the worktop and his baby sister sitting on the floor, with her tiny legs wrapped firmly around a mixing bowl, playing with a wooden spoon and some ingredients. It really could only be called ‘playing’ rather than ‘baking’. Harriet liked to assist her mother in the kitchen, but hadn’t yet developed good enough motor skills, or hand-eye coordination skills, or not-eating-egg-shells skills, so in the end she was usually provided with a mixing bowl with some butter and flour and sugar and left to it. If the resulting dough when she got bored was salvageable, it would be made into biscuits, which would delight Harry. John wasn’t holding out much hope for today’s batch. Harry was trying to stir her concoction, her hands spinning the spoon, but she kept dropping it and hitting herself in the face, making her start in surprise. John picked up the spoon and put it back in her hands, realising then the tap-tapping he could hear wasn’t his sister’s baking but was someone knocking on the window. He looked up to see one of the Moriarty family owls and smiling, went to open the window.

The poor thing looked rather cold and wet, and, fairly sure his mother would be upset to have an owl on top of her food, John moved it down onto the floor next to the warm oven, hoping the table legs would keep his curious sister from interfering with it. After finding it some water and some bacon rinds to chew on, John removed a short letter from the strap on its leg.

 _Dear John and Sherlock_ , it read in Jim’s characteristic print.

_Merry Christmas!! Not sure when this will get to you, hopefully on Christmas day, but it depends how fast old Birdie flies. If it’s Boxing Day already, I’m so sorry to have neglected you, darlings, I’m sure you were terribly lonely._

_That was a joke by the way. I’m good at jokes :P Of course it’ll be Johnny-boy and Sherley, together again for a seasonal special! I’m waiting for the day when they make one of those cinema film things out of our lives, then they can edit out all the BORING parts where I’m just STUCK here all alone at Christmas :( Or at least put some sad music over it or something. You won’t believe how DULL DULL DULL it is here. If you don’t write back quickly, I might start setting things on fire just for something to do. I hope you bought me decent presents this year or something is going to go boom :D_

_Hope you’re having fun. John, tell Sherley to behave himself; and Sherley, tell John to shut up about his sister, even if she is adorable. Anyway, I’ll apparate over there in the next few days sometime if I can sneak away, so look forward to having my wonderful self in your midst again. It’ll be fun………_

_Lots of love,_

_Jim xxxxxxx_

John put the letter aside, shaking his head. Reading a note from Jim was always just the same as talking to him; no-one could express their personality quite as well on paper as Jim Moriarty.  While he had been distracted, Harriet had abandoned her spoon altogether and moved on to playing with the mixture with her hands, giggling manically. She had it smeared across her forehead and nose.

“Oh, Harry, come on, it’s me mom will get mad at, you know.” John sighed, picking her up and trying to avoid her sticky fingers while he sat her down. Wetting a cloth at the sink, he knelt down by the chair and started to clean her up. Harriet giggled and squirmed, trying to avoid the cloth, so John, laughing, growled like a monster and darted it at her as she tried to dodge, squealing.

“Ah, you can’t escape my monster tongue.” He told her, in his best monster voice. “I’m going to lick you clean and then I’m going to gobble you up!”

Of course, he wouldn’t have said or done any of this if he had realised Mycroft was standing in the doorway. Embarrassed, he jumped to his feet, the cloth dripping on the floor. Mycroft smirked.

“Oh, don’t mind me.” He said, moving to take some empty glasses over to the sink. “Carry on with what you were doing.”

John said nothing, wiping his sister’s hands in silence. Mycroft leant against the worktop, watching.

“What?” John asked, defensively.

“Nothing. I was merely thinking.” Mycroft smiled. “It reminds me of when Sherlock was small, though of course I was younger than you. He was such a curious child. The moment he could crawl he was picking up everything that wasn’t bolted down and bringing it over to show you and if you weren’t as interested in it as he was he’d glare at you and ferret it away into his secret hiding place in the bottom of the laundry basket.”

It occurred to John that this suited Sherlock perfectly. In fact, John could imagine his friend still doing that now. He couldn’t help snorting with laughter.

“He was always so dependent on me when he was a toddler. He used to follow me around the house like a little chick.” Mycroft frowned slightly. “I liked him best when he was that age. Before he could talk.”

“So what happened?” John asked. “I just assumed he had always been…”

“Resentful? Oh no.” Mycroft shrugged. “But he was only four when I left for Hogwarts and got most upset. I don’t think he’s ever quite forgiven me.” He watched as John picked up Harriet and turned to the sink, putting the glasses into the washing up bowl. He seemed thoughtful. If John didn’t know him any better, he might even have said uncertain. But Mycroft always knew exactly what he meant to say and said it, no more, no less. Still, there was no denying it; he hesitated before he spoke next.

“Tell me, John.” He said, slowly. “What has Sherlock told you of a wizard who calls himself Lord Voldemort?”

“Mycroft, why are you telling John things he doesn’t need to know?!” Sherlock burst in, talking right over the top of his brother, looking furious and slightly embarrassed. Mycroft smiled thinly.

“I was just commenting on what a sweet boy you were.” He said. “And what a pity it is you’ve changed.”

“Shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s tone was dangerous.

“I just told him about your little stash in the laundry basket, nothing embarrassing. I didn’t tell him about the time you fell in it and got stuck and I finally found you three hours later because you’d gotten frightened and were making little mewing-”

“Mycroft! John does not want to hear about the things I may or may not have done as a baby!”

“Yes I do.” John said. Sherlock shot him an icy glare.

“Don’t try throwing filthy looks around, brother.” Mycroft said. “It won’t work on me.”

“No, you’ve earned so many you must be immune.”

“Now really, we’re both adults, must we bicker like children?”

“It’s hard not to when I hate you.”

“Oh, really now, Sherlock, you’ve been saying that since you were two and a half. Surely you must have come up with a new argument by now?”

They were interrupted by the phone on the wall ringing, much to John’s relief, and he passed Harriet over to Mycroft who took her into the living room while he answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is that John? It’s Molly!”

“Hi Molly, Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas! How is it? Are you having a good time? I’m guessing Sherlock is there too.”

“Right.” He held the receiver up. “Sherlock, say happy Christmas to Molly.”

“You seem to be mistaking me for a trained seal.” Sherlock answered, poking at Harriet’s mess with the end of the spoon. John put the phone back to his ear.

“That’s Sherlock-ese for Merry Christmas.” He informed her dryly. Molly laughed.

“He’s the same as always then. Oh, but that reminds me, I need to ask him something about Ringo. Can you ask him what I should do if he-”

John stopped listening, pulling Sherlock over and handing the receiver over to the founding member of the ferret fan club. That said, they were seeing less and less of Agatha lately, the long suffering creature was starting to get old and so Sherlock was begrudgingly allowing her to spend more time sleeping in his room and less bouncing around in his pocket. John went into the living room, wondering if Mycroft would resume what he had been trying to say before Sherlock had talked over him, but found the elder Holmes was too busy explaining the younger’s explanation of the chemistry/potions research, which was to be presented to the Ministry at the end of March, during the Easter holidays. As Mycroft talked about the possibilities of sodium, magnesium and litmus paper; floo powder and dragon’s nails and newt eyes, John thought he detected a note of pride. He hoped that he and Harriet never ended up so unable to talk to each other.

                At that very moment, Harriet sneezed fire. The room looked at her in silent alarm, while she just giggled and clapped her hands. Multi coloured sparks came out of her fingers.

                “Pretty!” She gasped, trying to catch them.

                The room fell into silence again.

                “Well,” Dean said, finally, looking a slightly odd colour but smiling bravely. “I guess we know which side you got it from, John.”

                At that moment, Sherlock came back into the room. “I got bored and hung up.” He announced to John. “You can call her back if you want to.” He looked around at them, noticing Dean’s face. “What is it?” He asked. “What’s going on?” 

As Christmases went, John thought later as he lay in bed, drowsy and full of food, it had been a pretty good one. Outside his window, it had even begun to snow again.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

John managed to get almost to the end of the holidays without anything to disturb his peace of mind. His sister’s obvious magical abilities hadn’t caused them any more problems but John was glad to see that she would be sharing his world in the future. Neither had Sherlock been causing him any difficulties. Mycroft had a rare week off from the Ministry the week after Christmas and was apparently spending it going over Sherlock’s findings and presentation of his research and helping improve it. John imagined there were many arguments going on in their house as Mycroft tried to help without seeming to and Sherlock tried to take his advice without admitting Mycroft was correct. Either way, it kept Sherlock out of mischief and out of John’s way.

On the last but one evening before his return to Hogwarts, John had the house to himself. His mother and Dean had taken Harry to visit Dean’s parents, and John had opted to stay behind. He was using the time to half-heartedly look over some homework with the television on in the background. It was a potentially controversial _Panorama_ report, reviewing how the lives of homosexual men had changed since consensual private acts had been legalised two years before. John wasn’t really paying it any attention, deliberately choosing a channel that would bore him. He still hadn’t written more than a few inches of his Herbology essay. His textbook didn’t seem to be helping either, the information scattered through it seemingly at random, if it was there at all. Eyes aching from staring at the page and not taking in so much as a word , John put the book down, shoved Jim’s Christmas letter in as a bookmark and stretched, turning idly towards the television. It was showing what the narration was describing as “an illicit bar for propositioning homosexual interaction”. John wouldn’t have paid it any attention and was turning back to his book, when he finally registered a passing thought that had passed through his mind. When he had seen the young men coming out of the club, he had thought “They dress like Jim”. And he was right.

John gawped at the television, telling himself not to be stupid- after all, the television was only presenting stereotypes. But still. They were wearing tight jeans and cardigans, just like Jim did. And now John thought about it, Jim had always been… flirty. John had just assumed it was just his style of humour, but now he wasn’t so sure. After all, he did want to break up with Molly. John took out the Christmas letter to check it, unable to stop looking at the row of kisses at the bottom.

He knew he was being stupid, of course. But he decided to grab his jacket and scarf and jog up to Sherlock’s anyway, just in case.

Sherlock was not impressed at the interruption. Twitchy showed John up into his sitting room, but Sherlock refused to leave the study or even get up from his deck, hooking the door open with his foot and calling through.

“What’s the matter, John?”

“It’s about Jim.” John went into the study and, moving a pile of books and what looked like sheets and sheets of hand and foot prints, sat in one of the chairs. He hesitated, feeling stupid now he was here.  What was he supposed to say? “It’s just, well, there was this programme on _Panorama_ and…”

“And?”

Best to just get it over with. “Sherlock, I think Jim might be gay.”

“So?”

This was a very good question, John reminded himself. He considered it for a moment or two. It was true he had never come across an actual gay person before, but he didn’t think that was the reason for his disquiet; after all, Jim was still Jim. John looked at his feelings a little more closely and came up with an answer.

“It’ll upset Molly.”

“Not as much as if he went off with another girl. At least this way it isn’t her fault.”

“Don’t tell me you’re fine with this!” John stood up, angry. “If he’s gay then he’s been lying to her and to us! Sherlock, he might fancy _you_!”

“Or you.” Sherlock answered, still bent over his papers.

“No way.” John said.

“It’s possible.”

“No it isn’t, you’re the handsome one.”

“You think I’m handsome? Oh dear, is it catching?”

“Shut up.” John said, sitting down again. “Maybe he doesn’t know it himself.” He said, slowly. “Or he didn’t want to admit it. Maybe that’s why he’s been dating Molly. He… he might just need our help. You know. Encouragement.”

“Don’t be an idiot, John.” Sherlock said, holding a piece of paper up to the light. It seemed to have atomic structures drawn out on both sides. When the light shined through them, they appeared to overlap. John resisted the urge to snatch it out of his hand.

“This is serious, Sherlock! I really think he is actually gay! He has all the fashions, and you _know_ how he is, he’s so huggy all the time and he always puts kisses on his-”

“Exactly! John, just listen to yourself and you’ll work it out.”

“Work what out?!”

“All the fashions, John.”

“So?”

“ _All_ the fashions!”

“I will punch you.”

“For goodness’ sake, John! Don’t be a fool, of course he’s not gay.”

“No, Sherlock, listen. He fits-”

“All the stereotypes, yes. Of course he does. That’s because he wants me to think he’s gay.”

John looked at him, confused. Sherlock didn’t appear to notice, casting his note into the air to join the swarm around the ceiling and pulling another sheet of paper towards him, beginning to draw out another. After a moment’s silence, John, irritated, was forced to ask.

“Why would he want you to think that, exactly?”

“So I’ll tell Molly and she’ll break up with him.”

John opened his mouth to say that was ridiculous, but then it occurred to him that, while undoubtedly ridiculous, it did seem the kind of convoluted thing Jim would do to avoid having to dump his girlfriend. So, instead of saying that, he said “But that doesn’t make sense. He knows how smart you are. Surely he would know you’d work him out. Why would he think you’d tell her?”

“Because he thinks I’m in love with her and would want an excuse to split them up.”

There was a long pause. Sherlock continued with his work, seeming oblivious to the elephant in the room. John realised he would have to ask.

“And are you in love with her?”

“No.”

“Sure.” John shrugged. “But the thing with you is, Sherlock, I don’t think you’d realise if you were.”

Sherlock ignored him. John sighed loudly and pointedly but let the matter drop, amusing himself instead by flicking through some of Sherlock’s papers, held in place on the mantelpiece by the dagger.

“Was there something else, John?” Sherlock asked, veiling his irritation.

“I’m trying to avoid going home to do my Herbology essay.” John admitted.

“What is it?”

“Classifying poisonous plants. Similarities, differences and uses.”

“Look under the saucepan.”

“What?” John looked around and located the saucepan on top of a bookcase. Standing on a stack of large books that almost seemed to have been left there for the purpose, he moved the saucepan and pulled out a scroll of parchment, folded rather than rolled, left in a mess and squashed flat. On it was a detailed encyclopaedic style sheet explaining the similarities, differences, and uses of various plants in Sherlock’s cramped hand writing. “Why do you have this?”

“I did it for fun three years ago.”

“You have a weird idea of fun.”

“If you don’t like it, don’t borrow it.”

John borrowed it, stuffing it into his pocket. At that moment, a note zipped in, flying through the still open door. Sherlock caught it neatly- sometimes John thought he would have made an excellent seeker- and read it, glaring.

“What’s that?”  John asked.

“My brother offering his opinions, again.” Sherlock said, sounding disgusted. “Look at what he’s put.” He passed it over.

_Your fourth proposition was better before you redrafted it. Also, your conclusion is too arrogant. I keep telling you, you need them to like you. –M_

“He’s right.” John said. “If the panel at the ministry don’t like you, they won’t use your findings, however good they are.”

Sherlock ignored him, crumpling the paper into a ball and tapping it with his wand. It flew out at high velocity, a projectile undoubtedly aimed at Mycroft’s head. A second later a muffled ‘ow’ coming from the passage way outside Sherlock’s rooms seemed to confirm this theory. It was followed by Mycroft entering the room.

“You know, Sherlock, this is exactly the kind of thing I meant.” He said, frowning. “You can’t just treat them as idiots if you want them to take your theories seriously.”

“But they are idiots.”

“I know.” Mycroft said. “But they don’t know that. Hello, John.”

“Mycroft.”

“I came to ask you about this, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, delicately extracting a page from the sheaf of papers he carried and laying it out on the desk, smoothing it down as best he could around the clutter. “I don’t think you’ve explained it properly.”

“I’ve explained it fine.” Sherlock snapped.

“Then why don’t I understand it?”

John stared at him. He couldn’t help it. He thought Mycroft was the same as Sherlock and understood everything. Sherlock looked as surprised as he was.

                “Yes, alright, you may gloat later.” Mycroft said, waving his wand at a chair, which shedded its load of books and junk and pulled up to the desk. “In the meantime, explain what you mean by this, here. You seem to be suggesting that magical intensity is to do with these chemical bonds of yours, but…”

                The rest of what he was saying was lost on John and, assuming he wouldn’t understand the answer if he couldn’t work out the question, he decided to leave them to it. He was going to go home, copy Sherlock’s notes into his essay, and then call Molly and read them out to her. After all, they may as well all cheat together.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

                It was a Wednesday towards the end of March during the last week of term when John woke up because it was sunny. All week a storm had been lashing the castle, the rain constantly drumming against the window panes and the wind worming through every crack. The weather had been affecting everyone’s mood and tempers had been starting to fray after days stuck indoors; even Sherlock had been getting annoyed with the constant downpour, saying that Agatha didn’t like it and would just huddle under his bed clothes, sleeping all the time. His irritation, however, may have been more due to the looming deadline for his work; the presentation at the Ministry falling at the beginning of the holidays, just a few days away. Sherlock had been shut up in his room in a foul mood most of the time and John mostly avoided him, although he found himself more and more often wrapping food in napkins to take to class and try and force Sherlock to eat as he once again skipped a meal. He hoped to see Sherlock being restored to his usual levels of health and happiness, such as they were, when the research presentation was finally over.

                In the meantime, of course, he still had Jim and Molly. He hadn’t been altogether convinced by Sherlock’s assertion about Jim at the time, but the evidence since seemed to agree with Sherlock. Over the last term Jim had let his appearance slide again, no longer shaping his eyebrows or styling his hair, and he took less time worrying over his clothes at the weekends. His behaviour had also returned to the normal levels of flirtation that had always passed unnoticed. John was relieved, and yet there was obviously still something on Jim’s mind. He was spending less time with them than ever, was cagey about where he had been, and was always slipping off into daydreams. There were dark circles under his eyes. Of course, there was no point trying to talk to him; he would just smile and laugh it off. Molly was as worried as John but had no more idea than he did; and Sherlock just told John not to worry, and that Jim was ‘fine’ and ‘knew what he was doing’ before refusing to say anything else.  John couldn’t help but wonder if, given Sherlock’s current distraction, he might be wrong this time; but supposed there was nothing he could do if Jim wouldn’t talk to him. He would just do his best to keep an eye on things, as much as he could under the burdens of NEWT-level revision and homework. At least he had got more studying done over the last few days, with Quidditch cancelled due to the storm. Still, that morning he woke up because of the change in sound, because of the stillness and the quiet, and for a moment he lay in bed, revelling in the shaft of morning sunlight that was making its way through the gap at the corner of his curtains and warming his face. He smiled. It felt somehow like he hadn’t seen the sun for a long time, and it was a welcome respite after a night of disturbed and confused dreams. He had been dreaming about Christmas, he thought, and about the dream he had once had about Mycroft, and about Jim and the spider on the bank of the river, and about Harry breathing fire and Molly and Sherlock coming back with their hair cut and Mycroft leaving that last Christmas day, putting on his coat and his green silk gloves and hooking his umbrella over his elbow before saying goodbye to them and strolling off up the star lit path. Mycroft never apparated at Christmas, or used floo powder. He said it was bad for his digestion. And so the two brothers would make their separate ways home.

                John decided not to waste his first morning of sunshine lying in bed ruminating over why the mish-mash of memories had made him feel so uncomfortable, and get outside for a run.  It was a little later than he would usually go, but he could be late to breakfast for once. He had missed his morning jog, the habit of years, over the past few days; and he crept silently out of bed, finding his tracksuit bottoms and his trainers. The uneasiness of his dream still hadn’t gone away and he realised it was his so-called sixth sense acting up for the first time in a while, making the hair on his neck prickle and his leg twinge. He felt that somewhere, something bad was going to happen, or had happened, or was happening; but there was no way to find out what, certainly not by staying in bed. Better to just get on with the day and see what would happen. Most likely he could run the night’s uneasiness away.

                It was the peculiar time of morning where the sun was warming his neck and shoulders, yet there was still the chill of the early hours lingering, leaving him cold and warm at the same time. His temperature evened up as he jogged, forcing himself to go at a steady pace and not overdo it when he hadn’t run for days. His steps and his breathing settled into a steady rhythm, apart from hesitations when he had to slow down and consider his route. No jogging around the lake this morning; not when the ground would be an absolute quagmire. Following the paths, he eventually ended up doing a circuit, looping away from the castle, round the edge of the grounds and back again. He was passing the western most wing of the castle, when he heard a voice calling to him.

                “Mr Watson! I say, Mr Watson!”

                John looked up to see the tiny Professor Flitwick leaning out of his office window, all the way up on the seventh floor. The Ravenclaw head of house was so small he was straining to lean over the stone windowsill, having to lie flat on it to look down on him. John was quite alarmed.

                “Be careful, Professor!” He shouted back, but it wasn’t easy to conduct a conversation with seven floors between you. He couldn’t even see Flitwick’s face properly; so who knew how the Professor had recognised him. Or perhaps it was just the fact nobody else went for a morning run every day.

                “Come inside!” Flitwick shouted, and shuffled back off the window sill, disappearing out of view.

                John’s magical radar suddenly went crazy, his stomach turning over. He felt physically sick. Whatever it was, whatever the bad thing he had been sensing since the night before was, it was happening now. He cast around for the shortest route back to the front doors of the castle and ran as fast as he could. He was inside and half way up the West Staircase when Flitwick met him, looking grim.  He was dwarfed on either side by Professors Dumbledore and Slughorn; the three of them side by side, tall and thin, short and fat, and absolutely tiny, would have made a comical sight on any other occasion. But not today, not when Dumbledore’s eyes were serious and his face frowning, and when Professor Slughorn looked positively ready to cry. John swallowed hard and found his voice.

                “What is it? What’s wrong? Is Sherlock okay? If he’s done something, I’m sure he didn’t mean-!”

                “Mr Holmes is fine.” Dumbledore said mildly, cutting him off. “And in no more academic trouble than usual. I’m afraid we simply thought he would need his friends beside him today.” There was sadness in his eyes.

                “Why?” John demanded. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

                “Perhaps you could wait in Professor Flitwick’s office, Mr Watson.” Dumbledore said. “He and Sherlock will join you there shortly. As for us, I’ll be in Horace’s office if you need me, Filius.”

                “Of course.” Flitwick replied as the other two teachers went past him, Slughorn shaking his head and muttering something about a terrible loss. John’s heart pounded furiously as he climbed up the stairs and entered Flitwick’s office, ignoring the chairs, preferring to pace the floor, questions running frantically through his mind- but somehow, something in him seemed to have half guessed the awful news that was coming.

Sherlock entered a moment later, following his head of house through the door. John stopped pacing and looked at him, trying to find some clue in his face. Sherlock must have worked out what this was about, of course. He always did. Yet today the younger Holmes’ face was stony and set. He glanced at John.

“Why is he here?” He asked Flitwick.

Flitwick pulled himself into his chair, unable to meet Sherlock’s eye. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He said, gently. “We thought you might want a friend here.”

“If it’s private I can wait outside.” John said, moving towards the door.

“No, it’s fine.” Sherlock said, cautiously lowering himself into one of the chairs before the desk, not taking his eyes off the Professor. John did the same.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Sherlock.” The Professor said, slowly. “I’m so sorry. We just received word this morning… Your brother has passed away.”

John looked between them, horrified. Sherlock sat, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so hard that John thought his knuckles would tear through the skin. But he didn’t say anything.

“No.” John burst out, shaking his head. “No. You don’t know Mycroft, Professor. He’s not… he wouldn’t…”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid there’s no doubt. I’m sorrier than I can say for your loss, Sherlock.”

Sherlock still didn’t say anything, but suddenly jolted out of his chair, throwing himself out of it; striding across the room to the bookcase and staring at it like he didn’t know what it was or what it was doing there. He turned his back on them.

“I don’t understand.” John said. “What… I mean, what happened? How…”

“We… don’t know yet.” Flitwick said, hesitantly. “The Auror Office is investigating. Mycroft’s body was found in his office this morning. So far no weapon or suspect has been found…”

“He was murdered?!”

“It appears that way, but of course the investigation-”

“He was killed inside the Ministry?! How could that happen?!”

“He was found… well. His body suffered a terrible wound… he had been… pierced all the way through.” Flitwick looked horrified himself, but his eyes were trained on Sherlock. “We must talk about this later, when we have more information. This must come as a terrible shock to you. I’ll send down for some tea and-”

“Keep it.” Sherlock said. It was the first thing he had said. A second later he flung the office door open and stormed out, looking for all the world like he was going to run, but he was brought up short by the fact Jim and Molly were waiting outside.

“Johnny-boy, what are you doing in there?” Jim asked. “What’s going on?”

“What are you doing here?!” Sherlock demanded.

“We were worried when the Professor called you away like that!” Molly answered. “What’s going on? Sherlock, tell us what’s wrong.”

Sherlock didn’t answer at first, swallowing. Then he turned, and started to tear away down the staircase, leaving them all to do their best to keep up.

“I was wrong.” He said, pounding down the steps.

“Wrong?” Molly asked, struggling to catch him. “Wrong about what?”

They had reached the lobby now and Sherlock headed straight for the doors to the grounds, falling against the one that was still bolted shut. The others hurried down to him.

“I should have realised.” Sherlock said, and suddenly began talking at a hundred miles an hour. “I saw the way he was looking at me. I knew it was pity in his eyes, but I thought… I assumed… I thought it was my mother. That she had died, or disinherited us. That seemed much more likely, we haven’t seen her for years, not that she’ll have much left to leave us, Mycroft kept having to refill her vault. I thought perhaps she had contested his inheriting everything of my father’s; he didn’t leave a will so the usual process is that everything would have passed to my mother, but it is a family tradition that it goes straight to the next family head and she hadn’t contested it before now, so of course there was no way she could have won our money! Of course not! Stupid, stupid!”

“What are you talking about?!” John shouted, interrupting. “What are you saying, Sherlock?! What’s wrong isn’t that you made a mistake, it’s that you just found out your brother’s been murdered!”

Molly’s hands flew up to her mouth in shock. “What?” She asked, shakily. “What do you mean?”

“Mycroft’s dead?” Jim demanded at the same time.

“Shut up, John.” Sherlock said.

“No.” John shook his head. “Dammit, Sherlock, it’s fine to say that you aren’t okay! Talk to us!”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, resting his head against the door.

“Sherlock…” Molly started, then stopped. Even she didn’t know what to say to him. Suddenly, abruptly, Sherlock ran out of the doors and into the grounds. John followed without a second thought, they all did, temporarily blinded by the glare of the sun as they emerged from the cool interior of the castle. It was going to be a bright spring day, bright and warm. Sherlock was really running now, streaking across the sodden ground, pieces of mud being kicked up in his wake as he flew, trying to keep his grip, splattering his school robes. Even John couldn’t keep up with him as they crossed the grounds, past the greenhouses, past Hagrid’s hut, all the way to the very outer fence. Sherlock didn’t even slow down, colliding with it at full speed, making it clang metallically. John saw him convulse and pushed his aching legs into one final extra burst of speed, throwing himself forward and landing with a splat in the mud just in time to catch the ferret that Sherlock had become before it disappeared through the railings.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” John shouted, trying to keep the squirming ferret between his fingers. “Sherlock! Sherlock, calm down! What are you doing?!”

He felt the fur receding between his fingers but kept his grip, a moment later finding himself  holding a now-human Sherlock firmly by the arm. He didn’t loosen his hold.

“Let me go.” Sherlock glowered.

“No.” John said, shaking his head. “What are you doing?”

“Only the school owls can fly out of here.” Sherlock said. “Nothing else can get out by the air. So it has to be by ground.”

“Where are you going?”

“The Ministry!”

“Sherlock… it’s too late. You can’t save him.” John had never hated himself more than he did in that moment, for saying that to him. But what else was he to do? “Please… come back inside.”

Sherlock wrenched his arm away, furious. “Why would I listen to you?!” He hissed, staring John squarely in the eyes. “You saw this! You foresaw this and you didn’t do anything about it! So what use are you, John?! What use are you?!”

 “What?” John asked, confused. “What are you-” All at once it hit him. “Oh. Oh, oh no. Sherlock-”

“Shut up.” Sherlock said, turning away from him in disgust, punching the fence in anger. The sound reverberated down its entire length. John looked at the floor.

“What?” Molly asked. “John, what’s he talking about?”

John tried to answer, but his mouth had completely dried out.

“John’s prophecy.” Jim supplied, working it out, of course. “Do you remember? He said he saw Mycroft being caught somewhere he shouldn’t have been…”

“Blood will cover the wood.” Molly whispered through her fingers. “But… Oh, Sherlock.” She reached out tentatively, her hand shaking, going to rest it on his shoulder. “Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. But I’m sure if… if John had realised Mycroft was going to… to d-die then-”

“Of course he was going to die!” Sherlock shouted, furious. Molly withdrew her hand. “Of course he was going to die! That’s what people _do_!”

None of them said anything. How could they? Sherlock never shouted. Not like this. But his face had changed, suddenly. The contortions of rage faded and he began to frown, just as he always did when he was thinking. But there was madness in his eyes.

“Jim!” He said, lurching over to his friend and gripping his shoulders. “Jim, I know you’ve been exploring it! Immortality, you said. You’re in with them, aren’t you?! I know you are! You, Moran, all of them! All of you looking for the same thing! What do you know?! Tell me!” He shook Jim roughly by the shoulders. Jim, for the first time in his life, actually looked shocked. Unsure.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, I can’t. I… I don’t know yet, I… he hasn’t-”

“Useless!” Sherlock forced him away with such strength that Jim almost fell over. “Useless, useless, useless! The lot of you! All of you, you’re completely useless to me! Just… just stay out of my way! Just leave me alone!”

With that, he stormed away, back up to the castle. Professor Flitwick, who had been lingering some distance away just in case intercepted him, and clearly took charge of him as they went back up to the castle together. Sherlock’s friends stood and watched him go.

“Poor Sherlock.” Molly said quietly, almost in tears.

John shook his head. “Let’s go.” He said.

“Go where?”

“After him!” John said.

“I think he made it pretty clear he doesn’t want us around.” Jim said, bitterly. “Let him go.”

“Are you really going to leave him alone? After that?” John demanded. Jim looked away. “Fine, do what you like!” John snapped. “But I’m going after him.”

                With that, he marched away up to the castle and didn’t look back.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

“You have answered incorrectly.”

                “Look, I don’t know!” John shouted in frustration. “You have to let me in!”

                “The door will open only for a correct answer.”

                John took a deep breath, calming himself as much as he could. “Then could I please hear the question again?”

                “An incorrect answer was given.”

                John was standing outside the Ravenclaw common room, unable to get inside because the riddle asked to him by the eagle-shaped knocker was incomprehensible to him. With all the other students already in lessons, it meant that Sherlock was on his own inside; Flitwick would have left him alone when he asked. Sherlock was on his own inside and John couldn’t get in. He resorted to pounding on the door.

                “Sherlock! Sherlock! Let me in! Sherlock!”

                “Desist.” The door handle demanded. “Desist. Desist.”

                “No!” John shouted at it. “Listen to me, you stupid turkey. My friend is in there. My friend, Sherlock. Do you know him? Well, probably not, he seems to spend most of his time in Gryffindor Tower, but he’s in there today. He’s in there and his brother has just died. His only brother. Who basically raised him. The only family he had. And now he’s dead and Sherlock is on his own inside there and he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know, he… he doesn’t usually feel things. How do you expect him to deal with this on his own?!”

                “A correct answer must be given for any student to be admitted.”

                “Have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?!” John demanded. “Can’t you hear me?! Sherlock-”

                “What was the question?”

                John whirled round to find Jim and Molly appearing from the stairs behind him, Jim squeezing past him to get to the door. Molly smiled briefly at John before her face fell again. John found himself thinking again what a shame it would be if he broke it off with her. She brought out the best in Jim.

                “ _This thing all things devours:_ _Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;_ _gnaws iron, bites steel; grinds hard stones to meal; Slays king, ruins town,_   _and beats high mountain down.” The doorknob intoned solemnly, just as it had for John._

“Time.” Jim said immediately, and the door swung open. “There.” He looked at John curiously. “What did you say?”

                “A giant.” John pushed past him, entering into the common room.

                “Ha! Although, it does make sense.”

                The common room was empty. John noticed nothing about the architecture or design or furnishings, just that one simple fact. Sherlock would have told him off for being so unobservant but right now, John didn’t care. He located the dormitory staircases, found the one with a small male figure carved into the bannister and raced upstairs. The others followed. Sherlock was sitting on the bed when they all burst into the dormitory. He looked up at them when they entered.

                “John.” He said. “You’re filthy.” This was true.

                “That’s because I had to dive in the mud to catch you.” John answered. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the bed, Agatha in his lap. For a moment the only movement was Sherlock looking down at her, scratching her back. He didn’t look up at them again.

                “Oh, Sherlock!” Molly finally broke, flinging her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. Sherlock let her, but he didn’t hug back.

                “Look.” He said, and swallowed audibly. His voice had the slightest tremor in it this time. “I think I’m fine but my own body betrays me.” He pointed at his violin. It was lying on his bed, the neck snapped and hanging by the strings off the edge. “We finally know whose neck got broken, John, in that prophecy of yours.” He said, smiling slightly. It was unbearable. Molly hugged him tighter. Sherlock closed his eyes.

                “Let’s wait in the common room.” Jim muttered to John, who nodded and headed out. Jim pulled out his wand and tapped the violin.

                “Reparo.” He muttered, and the neck reattached itself. Then he followed John out, closing the door behind him.

                Sometime later Sherlock and Molly finally came downstairs. The House Elves brought food upstairs and the four of them ate lunch together, talking about nothing in particular.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

                That night, when he finally got to sleep, John dreamt about Mycroft again. It was Christmas, the last time he had seen him. The elder Holmes fussily arranged his scarf, buttoned every button on his coat, and slipped his green silk gloves on over his fingers. He had shaken Dean by the hand, and when John’s mother complained, kissed her on the cheek, before patting Harriet lightly on the head. He went to leave, nodding to John on the way, smiling just briefly. Then he stepped outside and walked away down the starlit path into the night, his umbrella swinging from his elbow.

 

 


	9. Chapter Four Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7th Year. Part 3/4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fun of this chapter was writing more about Sherlock’s other family members. :) In answer to a question I had, yes, chapter five (which will be three or four parts) in the years post-Hogwarts. Thanks for reading!

 

Chapter Four Part 3/4

 

“Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up. We’re here.”

                “What?” Sherlock opened his eyes, looking groggy. He blinked at the view out of the window. “Oh. Yes.”

                To say John was concerned about his friend would be an extreme understatement. After his initial shock and anger at the news of Mycroft’s death, a peculiar lethargy had settled over Sherlock. All he had done since they had finished eating at midday the day before was sleep, deeply and never waking for more than a few minutes. It had been decided that he couldn’t wait until the end of term to return home, and so he and John had been escorted by Hagrid to Hogsmeade where they caught a public train back to London. John had no trouble securing his own permission to leave early, Professor McGonagall simply telling him to take care of Sherlock. That seemed a tall order. Sherlock, when awake, had been unusually quiet and listless; when he did speak it was about mundane, everyday things. As soon as they had been settled in their seats Sherlock had nodded off again. John was trying not to be worried. Everyone responded to grief differently, after all.  It was unusual- John had suffered sleepless nights for weeks after his father passed away- but when was Sherlock not unusual? Jim was of the opinion that sleeping was probably the best thing Sherlock could do; with him being the way he was, his subconscious was probably shutting him down all the time so the unprecedented levels of emotion wouldn’t overwhelm him. Still though, it wasn’t like him. Sherlock was all about action, he always had been. Yes, John had sometimes known him to sleep an entire weekend away; but only when he had gone a week without sleeping first. This sudden exhaustion wasn’t normal. It wasn’t right. John forced himself not to say anything. It had only been thirty six hours since they had been called into Flitwick’s office. He had to be patient, and give Sherlock time. Tomorrow Molly and Jim would be heading home for the Easter holidays too and had promised to come and visit as soon as they could. It would be alright.

                Sherlock was already up and moving, pulling his coat tighter around him and stepping off the train. “We have to take another to Chelsea?” He asked, taking his forgotten rucksack from John. It contained a few essentials and nothing else. His other things would have to remain at Hogwarts until the final term.

                “Right.” John answered. “We need to find a guard and ask for the Platform.”

                “John! Sherlock! John-John!” A pause. “Harry!”

                The voice was little but loud, the overjoyed cry of a child. John would have known it anywhere. He span to look behind them and saw his little sister first, straining at the straps in her pushchair, eager to reach them. Then he saw his mother, smiling with sadness in her eyes, coming towards them as quickly as the cumbersome pushchair would allow her. John felt a sudden wave of relief wash over him, so strong that his knees almost gave out underneath them. He hadn’t been expecting his mother to meet them. He had written to her of course, a quick explanation of the circumstances, and told her he would be home on Thursday evening. As she came over to them, John realised that he had never been happier to see her in his life.

                “Oh, Sherlock.” She said, her eyes filling up with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

                “It’s nothing.” Sherlock mumbled, awkward.

                “Oh, come here.” She said, hugging him tightly and kissing him on the forehead like he was a child. “You silly boy. It’s not nothing. You’re staying with us over the holiday, Sherlock. No arguments; you’re not staying in that big empty house all on your own.”

                “Yes, Mrs Watson.”

                “It’s been Mrs Hudson for two and a half years now, dear.”

                “I know, Mrs Watson.”

                She sighed, kissed his cheek and finally pulled away. “Let’s get you home.” She said, warmly, giving him another quick hug. “There’s a Chelsea train in ten minutes and the sooner we get back the better.” 

                 “I’ll have to make… arrangements.” Sherlock said.  “There’s no-one else to do it.”

                “We’ll help you, don’t worry.” She sniffed audibly and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab her eyes with. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t, but… oh, you know, he was just so good with Harriet. We haven’t seen so much of him recently, he’s been busy with work, but he popped round when he could…”

                “No, it’s fine.” Sherlock looked away. He didn’t seem to know what to say. John squeezed his mother’s hand and they carried on towards the train and home.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

                By Monday, Sherlock seemed to be doing better. John’s mother was ensuring he ate regularly and he was at least awake during the day, but still seemed struck with an unusual level of inactivity. The funeral had been remarkably easy to arrange, although perhaps it was to be expected- as Sherlock had told John himself on Friday night, they weren’t a sentimental family; it was just a matter of disposing of the remains. This too was simple, as the house on the hill had a family crypt in the grounds, where Mycroft would no doubt have wanted to be interred. Sherlock had initially simply wanted to have him placed there privately, but as Twitchy apparated into the Watson household again and again bringing messages of condolence from important people at the Ministry begging for funeral details, Sherlock finally conceded defeat and accepted that there would have to be some sort of ceremony. In the end he wrote to Professor Slughorn and asked if he would give the eulogy, which was accepted with due solemnness and pride, making Sherlock groan and wonder what he had gotten them in for; but not sure who else he could have asked. He had refused to even consider asking anyone from the Ministry to speak. John didn’t blame him; the investigation into Mycroft’s murder was not going well, meaning any one of them was a potential killer.  The day was set for Wednesday and an open invitation was given to the Ministry and the Hogwarts staff. Mycroft apparently didn’t have any friends to be considered, but finally John’s mother wrote to their grandmother in France, after Sherlock was at a complete loss of what to say. She tentatively asked if they should try and contact his mother too, but Sherlock flatly refused. John, for his part, was glad. True, Mrs Holmes had a right to know whether her sons were living or dead, but she had shown so little interest, John didn’t think she deserved the consideration. Besides which, he didn’t want anything that was going to upset Sherlock anymore than he already was. Not that he would admit to being upset.

                To John’s surprise, Harriet had proved invaluable in this sense. She seemed to somehow know about the sadness weighing them all down and was perhaps in her own way missing Mycroft too. For whatever reason, she refused to let Sherlock out of her sight, following him constantly and begging to be picked up. Sherlock never gave in when he thought anyone could see, but more than once, when he thought John couldn’t see him and he allowed his sadness to show on his face, John sent Harriet toddling in; and Sherlock finally relented and picked her up. It was easier for him to justify to himself, John supposed, that he was hugging a baby than that he needed a hug himself. If it wasn’t for Harriet, perhaps he would never have accepted any comfort at all. Of course, he still insisted he didn’t like her.

                That day, as every day since she had come home, Molly was anxiously calling to check on Sherlock and, as every day, it was John that spoke to her.

                “He seems to be doing much better.” He said, keeping his voice low as Sherlock was only in the lounge. “He stayed up about ten hours yesterday and he’s been up since eleven today. I think he just feels better having made all the arrangements, you know.”

                “Oh, John… I need to talk to you about that.” Molly sounded more worried than ever. “It’s just… Jim and I aren’t coming to the funeral.”

                “What?” John was completely thrown. “What do you mean? I don’t understand. Molly, you _have_ to come. He needs you.”

                “But you’ll be there! And we would have, but Wednesday is the day he’s supposed to present his paper to the Ministry. He left all his work behind at Hogwarts, John, it was all still on the tables in our Common Room. I think… I think he may have forgotten about it.”

                John wanted to say that Sherlock never forgot anything, but that was the Sherlock who never sat still and never slept either. And that Sherlock would have made sure that his brother’s funeral didn’t clash with the presentation of his report, that he had spent years working on. “Well, can’t we rearrange it?” He asked.

                “Jim’s tried and tried and tried. We even went to the Ministry to ask in person, but they say it’s impossible; even in his circumstances. If he doesn’t show up on the day he’ll have to start again from scratch submitting his proposal and it could take years before he gets chance to go before them again. But he wrote out the whole thing into kind of a speech, or notes on how to go through the paper anyway, and Jim can understand it all so we’re going to go and present it for him and- well, Jim’s going to do the presentation, I’m just going to help distribute the copies of the abstract and things, you know, admin stuff, but maybe… maybe… maybe we can help him.” She sounded truly upset. John knew how she felt. Sherlock had always kept them just at arm’s length and it had taken years to inch closer. Mycroft’s death seemed to have built a wall between them, a communications black out. John had no idea what Sherlock was thinking or feeling right now or what he could do to help. He felt entirely powerless.

                “How is he doing?” She asked, pulling herself together.

                “Better, really.” John did his best to reassure her. “As well as can be expected, anyway. The problem is he just won’t admit he misses him. I don’t think he quite knows what to do now.”

                “Will he talk to me today?” Molly asked. “I just… I really just want to hear his voice and check he’s okay.”

                “I can try.” John sighed. “Not sure it’ll work. Hang on.”

                Placing the receiver down on the side table, John made his way into the lounge, where Sherlock was sitting on the settee. A half-eaten bowl of coco pops was on the table in front of him, which seemed to be the only thing he had any appetite for. The reason he wasn’t eating them became obvious when John realised he had Harriet on his lap, his arms folded loosely in front of her with as little contact as possible, but resting his chin on her head. She was sitting very calmly and very still, in a way she wouldn’t do for anyone else. They appeared to be watching Star Trek. Now into its fifth week, Sherlock had been receiving plot updates alongside his Thunderbirds ones from John’s mother, but was enjoying watching the real thing.

                “I know what you’re thinking.” He said, apparently not realising John was there as he addressed his remark downward, to Harriet. “But they aren’t actually drunk. It’s a virus that Joe brought on board, so now they’ve lost their inhibitions. The episode is called ‘Naked Time’, I think we can see where this is going.”

                “Sherlock!” John protested, turning the television off. He could see where it was going, and he didn’t like it. “Don’t show her things like that!”

                “I didn’t ask her to be in here.” Sherlock said sulkily, reaching forward to turn the set back on. John stood himself firmly in front of it.

                “You seemed to be having fun.”

                “I had to hold her still, she kept walking in front of the filmy boxy thing.”

                “It’s called a television, Sherlock. Anyway, Molly’s on the phone. Will you talk to her?”

                “Why?”

                “She’s worried.”

                Sherlock lifted Harry off his lap and dumped her down on the floor, where she whined and pulled at his knees to get back up until he brushed her off. “And what would I say to her?”

                “Just… tell her you’re alright.”

                “Why? She wouldn’t believe me any more than you do.”

                “So tell her you aren’t alright.”

                “But I’m _fine_ , John!”

                “She’s worried about you, Sherlock, we all are; she just wants to talk to you so-”

                “What am I supposed to say that isn’t just going to make her more worried?!” Sherlock demanded, marching out of the room. John heard the slam and click of him hanging the phone up, forcibly, and then him pounding upstairs to the bedroom. John didn’t follow, instead calling Molly back to apologise, pausing only to assist Harriet in climbing the stairs as she pursued her new best friend. Sherlock was doing better, but he wasn’t there yet.

                 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

               

                Sherlock had, at his own insistence, gone up to the house ahead of them on the day of Mycroft’s funeral, apparating up there an hour or two before John and his family would walk up to join the other guests. John supposed he just wanted some time alone, or perhaps he wanted to look through some of Mycroft’s things in private, or be there to greet the guests. It was impossible to know what was going through his mind. He hadn’t mentioned his research and John wondered if he really had forgotten or if, as usual, he was just keeping his thoughts to himself. John spent a restless morning, trying and failing to revise, his thoughts flitting between Sherlock in the empty house at the top of the hill and Molly and Jim, somewhere inside central London, trying to convince a bunch of important witches and wizards that Sherlock’s innovative methods and findings were not only valid, but useful, and something they should help him take forward. He couldn’t sit still, eventually filling the time with going for a run. He hadn’t dared leave Sherlock alone over the last few days, and right now, he needed to be moving. He ran round the streets until it was time that he could go home, shower and put on his black suit, and go and say goodbye to Mycroft. It wasn’t just for Sherlock’s sake that John was upset, nor was it the stirring of guilt that his strange dream two years before was obviously a vision of Mycroft’s death; he found he was genuinely grieved at Mycroft’s passing. He couldn’t quite say the older boy had been like an older brother to him, but he had been a sort of friend and mentor; if nothing else, he had been a regular feature in John’s life since he was young, and arrogant and pompous as Mycroft had been, he had also been considerate and polite and took care of John and his family.  He certainly hadn’t deserved the ending he had got. John just hoped whoever killed him would be brought to justice. There was still no news from the Auror Office except a letter begging them not to tell the press, because a murder in the Ministry would cause a wave of terror and loss of confidence in the government.  Dean, angry, had thrown it straight on the fire before Sherlock could see it, saying that the Ministry could ask them to cover things up when they had some results to show.

                They were among the first guests to arrive at the house, although wizards and witches were apparating left, right and centre across the grounds. John hoped that there was some sort of muting charm in place or the townspeople would soon be coming up to investigate. He was just pleased his mother had decided to leave Harriet with the next door neighbour, or she would have been crying in fear by now. Dean wasn’t doing much better, constantly jumping, startled. John wished he wouldn’t, though of course it wasn’t deliberate. But his mother needed him to be strong for her, looking as teary-eyed as she already did.

                There were chairs laid out in the grounds, down a slope on the side of the house, far from Sherlock’s little shed/laboratory, hidden well behind the line of trees where Sherlock and John had first met, in front of a small stone crypt that probably held generations of Holmes family remains, ornate iron gates with the family crest set in the lock in the centre. Just before the gate was a low stone table, beautifully carved, with a plain, unadorned coffin resting on top of it.  It was another beautifully sunny day, with just the slightest cool breeze running through the grass, ruffling the small black flags at the end of each row of chairs. John wondered who had set this all up, wondering if it really could have been Sherlock who had arranged everything so precisely, in such a Mycroft-like way. He supposed it must have been, with assistance from Twitchy. Mycroft wasn’t here to do it anymore.

                John looked down towards the front for Sherlock but couldn’t see him anywhere in the growing mass of people. Somewhere nearby, someone was talking rapidly in French, and it took him a few moments before he recognised the voice as Sherlock. He turned and spotted him at last, his back to them, conversing with an old woman, her lips pursed as she nodded, replying in French too. This could only be, John supposed, the grandmother from Paris. It was silly, but all these years, it had never occurred to him that Sherlock might have been fluent in French; he had just assumed they had spoken in English to one another. There was still so much he didn’t know about Sherlock and his family, and probably things he would never know.

                “Sherlock.” He said, squeezing his friend’s shoulder in greeting.

                “Hello, John.” Sherlock turned. “Hello, Mrs Watson, Mr Hudson.” He obediently went to John’s mother, kissing her cheek and letting her give him a quick squeeze before he wormed away. “Oh, this is my grandmother.”

                “John.” She said, offering a hand, which John shook. “How nice to finally meet you.” Her English was perfect, without a trace of a foreign accent. Then again, the same could probably said of Sherlock’s French.

                “You too.” John answered.

                “I’ve heard many things about you, John.” She said, still clasping his hand tightly. “If even half of them prove to actually be true, we shall go on very well.” She smiled, tight lipped, briefly; it was Mycroft’s smile. For a moment, John was irrationally surprised. From the few descriptions of his grandmother and her lifestyle Sherlock had given him, John had always imagined her to be an older, female version of Sherlock himself. But no, with her fussy dress and clinical manner, she was much more like Mycroft. He wondered if Sherlock noticed it too, and if it would make today easier or harder for him.

                “Grandmere.” Sherlock said. “Go and sit down.”

                His grandmother looked at him, assessing him, then turned back to John. “Sherlock wishes to know where your other friends are, but he’s worried asking will look like a sign of weakness so he’s hoping to get you alone assuming you’ll tell him without him having to ask.”

                Sherlock hissed something angrily in French. John had no idea what it meant, but his mother naturally did, and she looked alarmed and said “Really, Sherlock…” rather reproachfully.

                “Where are his other friends?” Sherlock’s grandmother demanded, ignoring both of them.

                “They’ll be here later, they’re coming to mine after this.” John said.

                “You’re avoiding the question.” Sherlock and his grandmother said together.

                “It must be something he thinks will offend or upset you more than them not being here.” Grandmother remarked to grandson.

                “Did they break up?” Sherlock demanded of John. Before John could answer, Sherlock’s grandmother jumped in again.

                “Oh, Sherlock, don’t be silly, they would still have come if that was all it was. No, it must be something more personal to you.”

                Sherlock looked confused, and then realisation suddenly dawned over his face. “My-”

                “Your research, yes. Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll do fine.”

                “You let them near my research?!” Sherlock demanded of John.

                “They couldn’t get another date!” John defended himself

                “I’ll have to go and-”

                “You aren’t going anywhere, young man.” Grandmother cut him off, wrapping an arm securely round his. “You’ve been subconsciously looking for a way out of facing up to this ever since it happened, and whether you’ll admit it or not, you need closure. Come along, let’s sit down.” With that, she dragged him off towards the front.

                John watched them go, realising he had been wrong. Their grandmother may have been like Mycroft, but she had a lot of Sherlock in her too.

 

               

 

John had never been a fan of Sherlock’s mother. Although he had never met her, he knew how she had barely been at home throughout Sherlock and Mycroft’s childhoods, always away travelling; he knew how she used to send demanding and insincere letters occasionally to ease her guilty conscience, and he knew how since their father’s death, her only contact with her sons had been to ask for more money out of their inheritance, having frittered it away on who knew what. However, he was about to grow to like her even less.

The ceremony had already started. Sherlock had refused to say anything so it was his grandmother who opened the proceedings, welcoming and thanking everyone, saying a little about Mycroft; but only the public things, about his work and his schooling, nothing too personal. She was back in Mycroft mode, speaking with formality and precision, saying only what needed to be said, her short speech functional and to the point. Then she took her seat at the end of the front row, on Sherlock’s right hand side. John was sat on his left. Sherlock sat between them, Agatha on his lap. He was sitting perfectly still, but his eyes were darting about restlessly, unable to settle on anything, but drawn back again and again to the coffin that lay there between them and the crypt. He held Agatha tightly. John wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. He just wanted this to be over.

Professor Slughorn stood up, dressed all in black, his face carefully arranged into a solemn display of seemly grief. He began on what promised to be a rather long eulogy.

“This is a sad day for us all.” He said. “A truly tragic occasion. To have lost such a promising young man, who would have been, indeed, has already been, so valuable in his work at the Ministry, and to lose him such a way- it seems almost too painful to be borne. As head of Slytherin House, I knew Mycroft from his very first day at Hogwarts; but of course I had been acquainted with his father, the once Minister for Magical International Cooperation since my own Hogwarts days. I knew, therefore, the moment I saw Mycroft step off the train at Hogsmeade station, just a young boy- Horace, I said to myself, that fine young lad will be another for your house. And I was right. Mycroft Holmes was-”

He was interrupted by a sharp crack as a finely dressed woman apparated into the very centre of the aisle between the chairs. She was dressed all in black, from her ridiculously high heeled shoes to her very short dress; the fur wrap covering her shoulders had a white stripe down the middle, looking as if it had come straight off a particularly luxuriant badger. Even her hair was black, tumbling down her back in tight curls, spilling out from under a tall hat that looked like a pile of frilly pill-boxes stacked on her head, supporting a lace veil that failed to conceal a single feature of her face, from the eye lashes so long that John was amazed she could lift them, obviously magically extended, to the one splash of colour that was her crimson lipstick, matching her nails, to her highly prominent cheekbones. John couldn’t help but know exactly who she was. Sherlock clearly took after his mother, at least in terms of looks.

                Sherlock was on his feet now, having leapt up when he’d spotted her, but now he seemed frozen to the spot. His face was dark and ugly with a suppressed rage John had never seen before as his mother smiled and starting making her way over to him, swinging her hips and seeming to enjoy the eyes on her. Sherlock’s hands balled into fists. John stood up too. Sherlock looked at him in surprise but John pretended not to see, focusing on the approaching woman until Sherlock did too. John didn’t know what he could do, but he thought Sherlock might need back up on this one.

                “I’m so sorry I’m late, everyone.” She said, when she got to the front, giving a dazzling smile that showed she had invested heavily, John thought, in teeth whitening potion. “Would you believe I only just found out? Such awful, awful news.” She wiped her now streaming eyes with a lace-rimmed handkerchief. “Oh, but don’t mind me. I’m so sorry, Horace, do continue.” With that, Professor Slughorn cleared his throat and continued, praising Mycroft’s ‘esteemed mother’ at every opportunity. Mrs Holmes continued to smile at him encouragingly, before finally coming over to them.

                “Sherlock.” She said, her voice dripping honey. “Oh, darling, isn’t it just awful? Come here. Give mummy a hug.”

                “What are you doing here?!” Sherlock demanded, keeping his voice low in spite of the rage clearly trying to escape him. His mother had no such qualms, forcing Professor Slughorn to raise his voice to be heard over her.

                “Oh, sweetheart, don’t be so rude. Of course I’m here for my own son’s funeral.” She dabbed at her eyes again, sniffing. “But look at you! Look how big you’ve gotten! You’re all grown up.”

                “Of course I’ve grown up, that tends to be what happens when you don’t see your child for almost seven years!” His grandmother put a restraining hand on his arm and glared at her daughter.

                “Magdalene.” She said, sternly. “We are trying to listen. Sit down and stop making a scene; show a little respect.”

                “I can’t sit down.” She said, smiling at John. “This young man is in my seat.”

                John didn’t move.

                The smile slipped an inch. “Young man.” She said. “Don’t you think I _ought_ to sit at the front, with my family, for my son’s funeral?”

                John still didn’t stir.

                “Move!”

                “That’s enough!” John’s mother was on her feet now. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you for a long time, Mrs Holmes. I think you’re a disgrace! How you could abandon your boys in the way that you have I just don’t know, but you made your decision and you must live by it. John- all of us- we have all seen far more of Mycroft over the years than you have, and what’s more, we’ve cared a lot more about him and about Sherlock too. If those boys are part of any family, it’s ours. All you’ve done for Mycroft in recent years is blacken his name abroad, saying he killed his father, just out of spite to make his job harder! And then you write to him begging for money! I think you’re disgusting!”

                “That was just a little misunderstanding.” Mrs Holmes dismissed. “Mycroft refused to give the house and the estate over to me, even though it should have been me that inherited it, not him. Do you think I enjoyed going cap in hand every time I needed a little boost to my purse? But now he’s not here to object, things will be much easier. I’m going to be a lot more involved. So when Sherlock’s finished at Hogwarts and comes to live with me here, he won’t need his little Neanderthal muggle ‘family’, now will he?”

                John’s mother swelled up indignantly, John stepped forward, Dean and Sherlock’s grandmother also got to their feet; but it was Sherlock who managed to speak first.

                “Mycroft left everything to me.” He said. “This house and all the galleons in the family’s vaults; all the estate, all our portraits and antiques. I was the heir to the Holmes family and now I am the head of it. I am the last one.”

                “Details.” His mother waved it away. “You have to realise, darling, with me here, things will be run rather differently.”

                “You won’t be here!” Sherlock said, finally letting his anger seep out. “I don’t know how you heard about the funeral and I don’t care, but if you really think you can waltz in here, making an entrance worthy of any prima donna, showing off and playing for sympathy, trying to take advantage of my inheritance and insulting my, my _family_ -” Here he nodded at John’s mother, who smiled, bursting into tears again. “-then I’m afraid you’re going to be sadly disappointed. Very disappointed.”

                “Darling.” His mother snarled, through clenched teeth still forced into a smile. “I know you’re upset, but you must think about what you’re saying. Why don’t we talk about this after the ceremony is over, hmm?”

                “I don’t need to think.” Sherlock said coldly. “And I have nothing to say to you, except this: Mother, get out of _my_ house.”

                His mother, looking grievously offended, said nothing, merely glared fiercely before executing a flouncing turn on the spot, and disappearing with another sharp crack. Sherlock, not looking at anyone, threw himself back in his chair, John snatching Agatha out of the way just in time. He replaced her on Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock looked at him as he sat down, waiting for his reaction.

                “Your mother,” John said, slowly. “Is a cow.” He gave a curt little nod, happy with this description.

                Sherlock snorted, looking away to smother his laughter. This set John off, and he too had to cover his mouth, trying to disguise his laughter as a cough, trying to ignore the injured looks they were getting off Professor Slughorn who, it seemed, had made a good part of his speech in vain, unheard by anyone.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

                After some time the speech was finally over, and the only thing left to be done was to move the coffin into the crypt. Sherlock finally stood.

                “John.” He said. “Will you help me?”

                John looked up, startled. Sherlock hadn’t mentioned this before, not once. Then he saw his friend’s face, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. Sherlock wouldn’t ask for help unless he needed it; though John thought the support this time was probably emotional rather than magical. He nodded, and went and stood on the far side of the coffin to Sherlock, glad he had brought his wand.

                “Ready?” He asked. Sherlock nodded silently. As one they pointed their wands at the coffin, held them steady, and said together “ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ”

They directed the coffin through the metal gates and into the crypt, settling it there amongst the others, going back generations. Sherlock didn’t hesitate, but flicked his wand at the gates, swinging them gently shut. The sound of the key turning very definitely in the lock echoed across the grounds and away from the house on the hill, signalling the end of the ceremony, the end of the day’s events, and the end of Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft Holmes.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Not many people came back to John’s after the funeral. His mother had offered to arrange refreshments, but Sherlock had refused. Some of the guests were muttering about the lack of a wake, surprised not to be invited inside the Holmes household, but John wasn’t surprised. Sherlock wasn’t good with people or mingling; the funeral would have been more than enough for him and his grandmother had handled most of the meeting and greeting. In the end, she was the only one who came back with them. She and Sherlock sat in the living room, conversing again in rapid French, while Dean went to collect Harriet and John and his mother made tea and coffee in the kitchen. John could see that in spite of herself, his mother was listening in to the conversation taking place in the lounge, clearly audible through the ajar door.

“Are they alright?” John asked her, worried, keeping his voice low.

“Yes, sorry.” His mother blushed slightly at being caught out. “She was just asking him about me.”

“What did he say?” John asked curiously, adding the cup of coffee he had made to his mother’s tray.

“That,” she answered, picking up the tray to take through. “Is none of your business.” Still though, she was smiling. John couldn’t help but smile too. He went to follow his mother through, but while he was on the way, the doorbell rang. John opened the door, expecting it to be Jim and Molly at last. He was quite right.

“Hey.” He said, standing aside to let them in, accepting the customary hug from Molly.

“How’s Sherlock?” She asked, sounding mortified. Her eyes were red too, she had obviously been crying.

“He’s okay, really.” John said, hugging her again when she didn’t let go. He looked over her shoulder at Jim, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded, clearly in a foul mood. “What happened?”

“We were set up!” He said, bitterly. “They had a problem with us the moment we got in there, I could tell! This one guy, Milverton, he kept making little snarky comments about Mycroft and having a little pop at the muggles and it being us instead of Sherlock, he was never going to take us seriously! He kept asking all these questions to try and make us look stupid-”

“Jim answered them all.” Molly said, quietly. “He did really well, really! But… they were asking so much detail, there was no way we could know all the answers…”

At that moment, Sherlock appeared, obviously having heard their voices in the hall. He took one look at their faces and sighed.

“I take it the research was rejected.” He said, heavily. “I expected as much. My brother did not have many friends at the Ministry, however many showed up for the funeral today.”

Molly threw her arms round him without a second thought. “Sherlock…” She said, miserably. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. We did our best, Jim did really well, but I… I just… stood there making us looking dumb. I couldn’t… I just… I’m sorry I’m always so useless! You’re hurting and I can’t even do anything for you!”  Finally giving in to tears, she cried into his shoulder. Sherlock looked positively startled, like a deer caught in headlights, then wrinkled his nose in distaste. John sent him a warning look, worried that Sherlock was going to be his usual blunt self and simply push her off him, but he needn’t have worried. To everyone’s surprise, Sherlock awkwardly lifted his arms and wrapped them around her.

“Molly…” He said haltingly. “You… you aren’t…” Probably self-conscious at the fact that he was hugging someone back for the first time in his life and that he was doing it in front of people, Sherlock trailed off and simply said, “You really should have been in Hufflepuff.”

Molly lifted her head from his shoulder and pulled away, wiping her eyes. “Shut up.” She said, laughing.

 “What he means is thank you for trying so hard.” John said, mildly. “And you aren’t useless.”

“Exactly what I keep telling her.” Jim agreed, wrapping an arm round her shoulders and kissing her cheek. “Sorry, Sherley.” He said. “They just don’t see the value of your ideas. They’re all stuck in the past.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I expected as much.” He said. “Molly, did you bring Ringo? My grandmother wants to meet Agatha’s children.”

“I couldn’t take a ferret into the Ministry, Sherlock.”

“Why not?”

They moved into the lounge, Sherlock being his usual self, blind to social conventions; Molly baffled by him and Jim teasing them both, John following on behind. He couldn’t help but smile. Maybe they would be able to get back to old times after all. Maybe it was going to be okay. Yet his magical sense shifted as he thought so, and he couldn’t quite force himself to honestly believe it.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

They had one other unexpected visitor that evening. Molly and Jim had left, touching a portkey Jim had made to take them back to his, not trusting himself to apparate such a long way and too far to travel in one jump on the floo network. Sherlock’s grandmother had not had any such qualms and had, after bidding them a good evening, calmly apparated back to Paris. John had thought that was the end of it, but no sooner had they gone than there was a sharp rap on the door. John’s mother went to open it.

“Can I help you?” She asked.

“Good evening.” A mild voice said. Sherlock immediately sat up straighter, more alert, but his expression made it clear he had no more idea why Professor Dumbledore should be here than John did; yet the voice was unmistakable. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Hudson. I’m Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster at Hogwarts. You may have seen me at the funeral earlier? I wonder if I could talk to Mr Holmes.”

“Of course, Professor.”

A few moments later, they were standing assembled in John’s bedroom. John was not altogether happy with having his headteacher in his room, which he couldn’t help noticing was even messier than usual now with Sherlock staying on a camp bed in there too, but what could he have done? Dumbledore had asked to speak to him and Sherlock in private and had headed upstairs before anyone could stop him. He didn’t seem to mind the mess, seating himself in the chair at John’s desk, admiring the Newton’s Cradle John’s mother had bought him from Harrod’s for his seventeenth birthday. He set the spheres knocking against one another, looking delighted at their movement.

“Ingenious.” He said, happily. “I really must get one.”

“You wanted to speak to us, Professor?” Sherlock asked impatiently, sitting on the edge of the bed next to John.

“I did.” Dumbledore nodded, folding his hands in his lap. “Sherlock, I’m afraid I owe you my deepest apologies. Is it too soon to speak of the circumstances of your brother’s death?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I want to know.”

“Very well.” Dumbledore pulled out his wand and pointed it at the door. “Let us ensure we will not be overheard.” He said, and the door shimmered slightly and settled as the muting charm took effect. “Now, tell me first what you already know, perhaps that will be easiest.”

“No.”

“Mr Holmes?”

“If I tell you what I know already, Professor, it will be harder to tell if you’re lying to me because I’ll have nothing to check them against.”

“Sherlock!” John cried, sincerely hoping Sherlock wouldn’t have them both expelled by the end of this conversation. “Sorry, Professor. It’s just been a hard day for him.”

“No, he is quite right to be on guard.” Dumbledore said, gravely. “In the times to come, suspicion may be sadly necessary.”

“Times?” John asked. “What times?”

“Tell me, Sherlock.” Dumbledore said quietly. “Did Mycroft speak to you about the wizard who takes the name Voldemort and his followers?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said. “He asked me for my opinion.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“To oppose him.”

Dumbledore smiled. “That is a decision we will all need to make eventually.” He said, and his face fell into a frown. “Though I fear what the cost will be.”

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, then steepled his fingers and leant into them in a very similar manner to the headmaster himself. “I don’t hold you responsible for Mycroft’s death. He knew it was coming and he was still caught. He was careless.”

“No, the danger was simply great.”

“Wait, sorry, what?” John had been waiting patiently for one of them to explain to him, but it didn’t seem like an explanation was forthcoming. He had remembered at last where he had heard the name Voldemort before, it was the name Mycroft had asked him about in the kitchen on Christmas day. Was this what they had been arguing about, the Holmes brothers, all those months before, in the study, about the danger at the Ministry? But if it was, why had it got Mycroft killed? And what had Dumbledore, their eccentric head master, to do with any of it? These were all the questions he wanted to ask, so he summed them up as best he could by simply saying: “What’s going on?”

“Voldemort is a dark wizard, John.” Sherlock said. “He’s been out in Albania, looking into becoming immortal, by the worst means possible.”

“Becoming…?” John repeated slowly, wondering why it sounded so familiar. Then he remembered. Jim on the beach, at the end of their fifth year.

_“You know I’ve been hearing stories about this wizard, out in Albania. They say he’s worked out the secret to immortality…”_

He remembered Sherlock’s words too, on the day Mycroft died: _“Jim, I know you’ve been exploring it! Immortality!”_

John looked at his friend in surprise, but with understanding at last. Just what had Jim been getting himself mixed up in? Sherlock nodded, seeing that he understood, warning him with his eyes not to mention Jim just now.

“What kind of means?”

“That, we don’t know for certain yet, so forgive me if I keep my suspicions under my hat for now.” Dumbledore replied. “Let me only say this. Voldemort is not immortal. He can be stopped. And he will be, no matter how far this goes.”

“How far what goes?”

“This is only the beginning, John.” Sherlock said. “We are sitting right on the starting line, and the pistol is about to fire.” He mimed a gun being shot. John decided they should stop letting him watch so much television. “Voldemort is powerful, and he’s gaining support. If Mycroft was right, it won’t be long until he attempts to take the Ministry and purge the muggle-borns.”

“Purge?” John asked. “…what, some kind of Nazi genocide?”

“Perhaps he took inspiration from Herr Hitler.” Sherlock smiled tightly. “The desire to dominate and destroy all that he touches…”

“No!” John said, appalled. “We can’t! We can’t let him-!”

“We are not standing idle, Mr Watson.” Dumbledore answered. “There are good men and women standing in his way; and as he gains support, so do we. I am organising a group to stand opposed to Voldemort, and all who would put this country into darkness. We will be called the Order of the Phoenix, because we will always rise again.” He paused, sighing sadly. “Mycroft Holmes was among the first of us, and he sacrificed his life to do his work.”

“What work?” John asked. “Are you saying this Voldemort killed him?”

“Not Voldemort, John, some of his followers.” Sherlock said. “You know who did it. You saw them.”

“You mean… when he was looking through the desk?” John felt sick. “Those men. They were really the ones who…?”

“It seems rather likely.” Dumbledore said. “I hope you don’t mind, Mr Watson; Mycroft told me all about your prophecy when he joined up with us. He was prepared for such an eventuality.”

Sherlock suddenly stood up restlessly, turning to examine John’s bookcase. He evidently didn’t want to look at them just then, or he couldn’t.

“We still don’t know what it means, though.” John said. “Half of it, anyway. I mean, I don’t even remember what I _said_ , I just remember dreaming about-”

Dumbledore held up a hand to stop his speech, not unkindly. “That is what I would like to hear about, Mr Watson. It is true the Aurors office will not be able to use your prophetic dream as _official_ evidence, but it would be rather nice to be able to point them in the right direction. I realise it was a long time ago, but do you think you would be able to describe the men that interrupted Mycroft in his work?”

John didn’t hesitate; a long time ago it may have been, but the dream had always stuck in his mind. He answered that he could, at least as well as he could describe anything. Dumbledore gave him a quill and a piece of parchment fished from his pocket and asked him to write down whatever he could. John set to.

“I have something to ask of you, too.” Dumbledore said to Sherlock. “These were the objects found in Mycroft’s pockets.” He handed them to Sherlock. There was a pocket notebook of Muggle manufacture, and a fountain pen of the same- Sherlock had taken to biros, but Mycroft favoured proper ink. There was also Mycroft’s pocket watch and a drawstring bag with some money, a wallet filled with floo powder and, of course, his wand. Sherlock laid them out on the bed, not looking sad, but critical, turning each of them over like he was searching for something. “You see of course what is missing.” He said.

“The papers Mycroft was copying.” John said. “They aren’t here. But he definitely put them in his pocket, I saw him.” He thought about it. “Are you saying the killer took them? What were they?”

“That, we do not know.” Dumbledore said. “Mycroft was investigating a man we believe to be a follower of Voldemort. We thought he might have information pertaining to where he is hiding and sending out orders to his followers.”

“Investigating who?” Sherlock asked. It was the first time he had spoken for a while.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Dumbledore answered. “I’m afraid that when Mycroft agreed to assist the Order it was on the condition that you were kept out of it until you had finished your education. I have perhaps already told you more than he would have wished you to know, though doubtless no more than you had already guessed.”

Sherlock scowled. “Then what is it you wanted from me, Professor?”

“We need to know for sure whether the man Mycroft was investigating did retrieve the papers he was copying.” Dumbledore said, simply. “It is possible that Mycroft managed to secret them somewhere before he was killed, but we do not know where to even begin looking.”

“And you assumed I would?”

“Were we wrong?”

“No.” Sherlock said, flatly. “But I don’t know yet. I will think about it.”

“Thank you.”

Soon after, Dumbledore bid them goodbye, expressing his sympathies and his apologies again. Sherlock didn’t go downstairs with John to see the headmaster off, instead taking the chair by the desk and pondering, deep in thought. John saw Dumbledore out into the back garden where he turned on the spot and apparated, before heading straight back up to Sherlock. His mind was running at a hundred miles an hour. He had never thought that he had been seeing the future, that the dream he had that had filled him with so much horror would have eventually proven to be true. He felt somehow responsible, as if he could have prevented Mycroft’s death. But what more could he have done? He had told Sherlock about it, after all, who had told Mycroft, who had told Dumbledore. That was the awful truth that was just beginning to sink in. Mycroft was clever. He must have known; he had known this was coming. Which meant Sherlock had too. And yet Sherlock had told him to stand against Voldemort, stand for the muggle borns, to get involved in all this; mostly, it seemed, for the benefit of John and people like him. Who knew how Sherlock was feeling just then?

“I don’t see how Dumbledore expects us to find these papers if we don’t even know what we’re looking for.” Sherlock said, the moment John re-entered the room.

“We know it’s a map, from what I saw. Anyway, he doesn’t want you to find them, he wants to know where to look for them.” John answered. “But I don’t see how Mycroft could have hidden them. If I really did see the last few minutes before… before… anyway, he just put it into his pocket. And if it’s not there now, the killer must have it.”

“Not necessarily.” Sherlock answered. “You didn’t actually see him die. Who knows what happened after what you saw? You forget how clever Mycroft was.”

 _Not clever enough to avoid being killed, even when he knew it was coming._ John thought, but said nothing.

“Run me through what you saw again.” Sherlock commanded. “Mycroft would have known you had forseen this. He knew you were watching. Perhaps he showed us something, or said something…”

“Sherlock…” John said carefully. “Mycroft could have left you a message, but he might not have done. It might be that… there isn’t anything else.”

Sherlock stiffened, offended. “I don’t think you’re still talking about the papers.” He said, glaring.

“I don’t think you were either, not really.” John responded. “Sherlock… you know it’s not your fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t.” Sherlock said, a little too quickly. “It wasn’t my fault, why would it be my fault?”

John sighed. Of course, he had almost forgotten; it was pointless to talk to Sherlock about anything even vaguely approaching emotion. He just had to hope that in time Sherlock would either get through it or open up to them. “Alright.” He said. “If Mycroft did somehow manage to get it out from right under those guys’ noses and hide it somewhere, where would it be?”

“Run me through what you saw.” Sherlock commanded again.

“I mostly just saw his hands, at first.” John said. “He was wearing his gloves, the green silk ones. He was going through a stack of papers in a desk drawer, one by one. Then he opened and shut the drawer a few times-”

“How many?” Sherlock interrupted.

“I don’t know. Two or three.”

“Which was it? Two or three?”

“Does it matter?” John asked, irritated at the interruption when he was just getting into his flow.

“It makes a difference to the timings.” Sherlock answered. “Besides, plenty of codes are made up with that kind of thing. Dashes and dots.”

“I think it was only twice.” John said. “If it was Morse code, Sherlock, it was a very short message.”

“Mm.” Sherlock agreed, accepting the criticism and amalgamating it into his reasoning. He waved at John to continue.

“So he opened the drawer and shut it again twice, I think to test the weight, because then he took all the papers out and found his way into a false bottom. There wasn’t much inside it, only a map, folded up. He unfolded it and looked at it; it was a wood, a map of a forest, and there was a skull insignia just right of the centre of it. He looked it over and then he took some tracing paper out of his pocket and started copying it. He was almost done when he got interrupted by two men. So he folded up the copy, put it in his pocket and said ‘Gentlemen, welcome home.’ That was all I saw.”

Sherlock processed this in silence, drumming his fingers against his face. Then, suddenly, he spoke. “Welcome home?” He asked slowly, a peculiar edge to his tone.

“Yes.”

“Welcome home? Those were his precise words?” Sherlock asked, suddenly flying over to the bed and going through Mycroft’s possessions.

“Gentlemen, welcome home; yes.” John repeated, baffled. “Why?”

“Oh, John, don’t you see it?!” For the first time since Mycroft’s death, Sherlock looked truly alive. John’s face evidently showed he did not see it, because he carried on. “The comma, John, the comma!”

“What? What comma? Sherlock-”

“It wasn’t ‘welcome home’, John, it was ‘welcome, home’!”

“Is there a difference?”

“Of course there’s a difference!” Sherlock said, excited. “Look what else he had in his pocket, John!”  He held up the wallet of floo powder and suddenly John understood.

“You think he sent it down the floo network? But, Sherlock, how is that even po-” He didn’t have chance to finish his sentence; Sherlock had grabbed his arm and was spinning them both on the spot. John closed his eyes. Side-along apparition with Sherlock was something he had never wanted to do.

 


	10. Chapter Four Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7th Year. Part 4/4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last part at Hogwarts. There’s still one more chapter to come, however, divided into three parts. Still, the story is drawing to a close…

 

Chapter Four Part 4/4

 

They reappeared on the front drive of the Holmes mansion, a few yards from the door. Sherlock didn’t hesitate, immediately striding towards it before John had even managed to get his balance back, meaning he had to run to catch up.

“Sherlock!” He called, catching up to him in the entrance hall. “Sherlock, wait a minute. I know what you’re thinking, but how is that even possible? You need a fireplace to use floo powder; I think they would have noticed him setting his pocket alight.”

“He didn’t have to, John! It was magnesium!”

“Magnesium? What?”

“Magnesium only has a very short burn time, John, less than a second.” Sherlock said, launching into one of his hundred-mile-an-hour explanations. “I theorised it would be possible to use it for emergency floo powder transportation, a small strip would provide just enough of a flare to send an object through. It was all in my research. I bet if you examined Mycroft’s body you’d find a burn mark right where his pocket was!”

“Then wouldn’t it have burnt the fabric on the outside?”

“John, really.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mycroft’s coats were always dragon hide. He wouldn’t accept anything else. The height of good taste, and entirely fire resistant. But the lining is silk, I suppose they didn’t anticipate a fire coming from inside. I wonder how he managed to connect his pocket to the floo network? He must have had connections in the department.”

“Alright, fine.” John sighed. “So you think he sent the paper through by floo powder. Fine. But even if that’s what he was doing, was just saying ‘Home’ good enough? I thought you had to be more specific.”

“I suppose we’ll have to find out.” Sherlock said, grimly, marching across the entrance hall to the grand fire place beneath the clock that Mycroft had used to get to work every day. He hunted round on the floor before it, and then produced his wand, shooting a spray of water into the fire until all the flames were extinguished. They were still steaming when he knelt in the grate, turning the coals over and tossing them aside as he dug through them.

“If the map’s there, won’t it have all burnt up by now?” John asked.

“There might be traces left, if they slipped down.”

John left him to it, thinking instead on his own lines. It struck him as very odd that Mycroft would have sent the letter through to somewhere where it could be burnt up. He would surely have made sure the fire would be out if he even thought there was the slightest chance he would be sending something so important through. And he knew what John had seen in his vision as well as Sherlock did, didn’t it stand to reason that Mycroft could have worked out the comma thing too? He had a sudden thought and headed downstairs to the kitchens.

“Twitchy?” He called, knocking the doorframe as he went in. “Twitchy, are you here?”

Twitchy was, appearing a second later out of the pantry. “Hello, John Watson!” She said, trying to inject her old cheeriness into her voice, though it was clear the house elf was missing her old master as much as anyone. “Twitchy didn’t hear you come in. Is Master Sherlock here too?”

“Yeah, he’s upstairs.”

“Oh! Then Twitchy will make dinner! Twitchy does worry that Master Sherlock does not eat enough…”

“I don’t think he’s eaten anything since this morning; if you can make something it would be great, thank you, Twitchy.” John said. “I’m sure he’ll come down and say hello to you soon. He was a little surprised you weren’t at the funeral, you know.”

“Twitchy was at the funeral, sir, Twitchy just stayed where she could not be seen. She thought Mrs Holmes might turn up, sir, and Twitchy did not want to ruin Mr Mycroft’s funeral by being shouted at, sir.” She pursed her lips tightly. “I don’t want to speak badly of the mistress, John Watson, but Twitchy does not think Mrs Holmes has been a very good mistress or mother, sir. Twitchy thinks Master Sherlock is the new head of the family, sir.”

“You’d be right.” John reassured her. “Mycroft made sure he would inherit everything, it’s all bound up magically, nice and tight. But there was something I wanted to ask you, Twitchy.”

“Yes?”

“Did you find anything- this will sound a little silly, but, did you find anything in or by the fireplace in the entrance hall recently? It would have been a folded piece of tracing paper with a map on, it would have arrived on the day… on the day Mycroft passed away.”

Twitchy nodded eagerly, not even needing time to think. “Yes sir, Twitchy did find something like that, sir. Twitchy thought it must belong to Master Sherlock, because he is the only one who leaves things untidily sir, but Master Sherlock was not here, so I thought it must have fallen out of Mr Mycroft’s pocket when he was going to work. Twitchy put it away for him.”

“Seriously?! Brilliant! Can you show me where?”

“Yes, of course.”

Twitchy lead the way upstairs. They reached the hall only to find that Sherlock was no longer there. John sighed. “Hang on, Twitchy, I’ll go and check his room.”

“Twitchy will check Mr Mycroft’s room, perhaps he’s already gone there.”

It was John that found Sherlock, sitting at the desk in his study, looking at a piece of parchment.

“Sherlock?” He said, going in. “I asked Twitchy, she found the map and tidied it up… what’s wrong?”

“Mycroft left me a note.” Sherlock said, keeping his voice carefully level. He didn’t look at John. “It was here on my desk. It must have been here since…” He trailed off, then abruptly stood, shoving the note back into its discarded envelope and pocketing it. “Anyway, it doesn’t tell us anything useful for the task at hand so it doesn’t matter. You say you’ve found the map? Excellent.”

“Sherlock.” John said, full of concern. “Are you really alright?” He reached out to touch his friend’s shoulder.

“I just want to get to the bottom of this.” Sherlock replied, shrugging him off. “Let’s start by getting a proper look at what Mycroft was copying.”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

“It’s not right.” John said, shaking his head. “There’s too much missing.”

They were in Mycroft’s study now, which was far larger and far tidier than Sherlock’s, the oak desk empty and gleaming from Twitchy’s constant attentions with the polish and varnish. They had the map unfolded and laid flat over the top of it. The map was partially complete, with all the outlines in place, and detail added to most of the left hand side; showing trees and streams and existing paths and small villages with utmost accuracy.

“Yes, well, he didn’t have time to finish.” Sherlock dismissed, indicating the sketchy two thirds of the map, that had yet to have any detail added. “This can tell us something, though.”

“It can?”

“He put the scale on the map, of course.” Sherlock said, indicating the small rule in the side of the parchment. “Which means, even if we only have a small area complete, we should be able to work out where about it is, eventually. If we assume this is something to do with Voldemort, it might be fairly safe to guess that this is a forest in Albania. Maybe it can tell us where our so-called Dark Lord is hiding. If Dumbledore can stop him before he joins his followers over in England…” He turned to one of the oak panels on the walls of the study and tapped it with his wand. Just like the archway in Diagon Alley, the panel sank back and then peeled the others away, folding back neatly to reveal extensive bookcases, far more tidy and orderly than Sherlock’s, arranged by subject. Sherlock bent low to a bottom shelf where he pulled out the South-east Europe edition of a twenty-five volume Atlas of the Known and Legendary World. He flipped through it rapidly, smoothing the page down at the beginning of the maps of Albania, and, lining it up neatly with the complete portion of the map, began to compare them.

“Sherlock,” John said, tentatively. “Will this really do any good? The map covers a huge area. Even if you find the right wood, it would take them days to search it, and if he really is that powerful he would realise they were onto him before then.” He looked down at the map in despair. “Why didn’t he copy that skull? It must have been the X marks the spot.”

“Because, John, he knew someone else had seen the map.” Sherlock glanced up from his work and smiled slightly, before turning a few more pages in the Atlas to another map of a forest.

“What? No, Sherlock, no. I don’t know. I wouldn’t know where to put it-”

“Not in all that blank space, no, which is why he didn’t do it himself.” Sherlock said, looking back and forth between his current page and the map. Abruptly, he pulled the map out from under the Atlas and laid it over the top of it. The tracing paper matched the map underneath exactly. “There.” Sherlock said, triumphantly, and placed his palm flat on the paper. Ink ran out from beneath his fingers, dancing across the page, flowing down the contours and details of the map beneath as if they were grooves. John watched, silently impressed. He knew Sherlock had kept up his wandless magic, of course, but it still startled him to see it. Sometimes he wondered just how much magical power his friend had. Sherlock took his hand away, turned the page, lined up his larger map with the next space that had to be filled in, and began again. Within moments, he was holding a completed map up to the light and, apparently satisfied, brushed the Atlas onto the floor, spreading the map out over the table again. It was perfect in every detail. The only thing missing was the skull insignia.

“John.” Sherlock said, pushing him down into the desk chair. “You can do it. You remember that prophetic dream of yours perfectly. Even if you don’t, that weird magical sense of yours will guide you. It’s important that you do this, John. Now go.”

John didn’t reply, inhaling deeply, his eyes closed, trying to remember. The moment he did he could see it all clearly, looking over Mycroft’s shoulder at the map from the drawer. Mycroft went into his pocket to get the tracing paper out, but John froze the memory still, focusing on the map, the camera in his head zooming in on the awful skull, with dark eyes, spilling a snake from its mouth. It was hard to see anything else, when you were looking at that. It made all the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and drove his magical sense, whatever it was, into overdrive. That empty skull was the face of evil. But he had to look not at it, he had to look where it was. He had to look at what surrounded it, at the rivers and hills marked on the map, at the break in the trees or how far from any of the settlements it was. He had to find the exact spot.

He found it, he really did. He found the exact point on the map and he tried to copy what he could see, but he hadn’t realised; the eyes of the skull weren’t empty, they were full of a smoky flame. They were burning into him. And the snake moved, leisurely, lazily, it would take its time to kill him. John tried to copy the symbol onto the map even as it came for him. It was important, Sherlock had said so. But it was hard to do that, hard to keep an eye on the snake, even, with the empty eyes burning into him. They burnt and burnt until the smoke was all he could see, and he realised, he realised with a sick feeling in his stomach that it wasn’t the snake that would swallow him, it was the eyes, the awful, empty, judgemental eyes of the skull that danced full of smoke. They were taking him in. He was becoming the smoke.

“John!”

John jerked, startled. He was lying on the floor on his back, his hand still grasping the broken halves of a quill. His face hurt; Sherlock was raising a hand ready to slap him again. He could feel a sheen of sweat over his brow. The skull was nowhere to be seen.

“Sherlock!” He said, his breath coming in panicked gasps as he struggled to his feet. “Sherlock, it was there. The skull. It was there and it saw me and it knew I was copying it and-!”

“John!” Sherlock said, grabbing hold of his arms. “Calm down. It’s alright. There’s nothing there.”

John blinked, coming back to his senses. He looked around, confused. “…what happened?”

For a second, he could almost swear Sherlock looked concerned, almost guilty. But the look passed and his friend went back to the desk, examining the map. “Some kind of anti-copying jinx, at a guess.” He said, briskly. “You just started having a fit.” He glanced up at John and this time there was definitely guilt in his eyes. “I had no idea it would have such an effect on you. Are you alright?”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” John said, though in reality he felt rather weak and had to lean against the panelled walls for support. “…I’m sorry, Sherlock. I tried. I really did; but that skull, it was just so awful…”

“Do you mean this one?” Sherlock asked, holding up their copy of the map. Just to the right of the centre, exactly where it was supposed to be, there was the skull with the snake.

“That’s the one.” John said, smiling shakily.

“You may have given us more information than you think, John.” Sherlock said. “We now know Voldemort’s logo, and someone like that, someone arrogant enough and cocksure enough to want to do the whole world domination thing, they’re obviously going to want to leave their maker’s mark on everything they do. It may even help identify his followers.”

“Great.” John said, managing to stand up straight. “Now, can we please have some dinner?”

“Oh, John, how can we think about food?” Sherlock dismissed. “There’s finally something fun going on!”

“Master Sherlock is not going anywhere,” Twitchy said sternly from the doorway. “Until Master Sherlock has had some food.”

Master Sherlock didn’t. It seemed that in spite of Sherlock being the new head of the Holmes household, Twitchy was still his nanny.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 Over the next few days, Sherlock showed a marked improvement. Partly it was just that the funeral was finally over, but it was mostly, John knew, that his friend had something new to focus on, a purpose. It was almost indecent how much Sherlock improved with a puzzle in front of him; but John supposed it took his mind off his own feelings. Still, he didn’t like it. He understood that Sherlock wanted to catch the people who had killed his brother; wanted to defeat this Voldemort before he could even begin on his aims, but John didn’t like this obsession and this brooding, he didn’t like that when they had given the map to Dumbledore, Sherlock had furiously attempted to question him. John knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock wanted to go and investigate the Ministry, and the circumstances of his brother’s death for himself. As such, he was prepared when a few days after the funeral, Sherlock announced his intentions at the breakfast table.

“I won’t need lunch, Mrs Watson.” He said. “I’m going to go to the Ministry and collect what I can of Mycroft’s things. I’ll get some lunch in the canteen there.”

“Oh, yes of course.” John’s mother said, looking slightly concerned. “Do you want me to come with you, dear?”

“You can’t, Mrs Watson, Muggles can’t get in. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll go with him.” John said.

“I’ll be fine on my own.” Sherlock said, glaring at him.

“I don’t mind.” John said, looking back at him with equal determination.  Sherlock had to wait until they were upstairs in the bedroom before he could get annoyed with him.

“John, you can’t come with me.” Sherlock said. “You know why I’m going.”

“That’s why I’m coming with you.” John said, pulling on his trainers. “I want to know what happened to Mycroft too, Sherlock, and if anyone has a right to be worried about this Voldemort guy, it’s me, remember? Because it’s going to be me and my family he goes after if he really is as powerful as you say.” He started tying his shoelaces. “I’m coming, no arguments.”

Sherlock paused, then sighed heavily. “Fine. But don’t blame me if it goes wrong.”

“Another reason I’m coming.” John said, finishing with his shoes and getting up. “You’re bound to get arrested if I’m not there.”

“Well, only if absolutely necessary.” Sherlock smiled. “I’m going to find out who did this, John. I’m going to find out who killed Mycroft.”

“And what are you going to do when you do, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock said, and John believed him. Maybe he really would have to stop Sherlock from getting himself arrested, on a murder charge. 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

It was John’s first time at the Ministry, but Sherlock didn’t give him time to gawp at the rows of grand fireplaces, with constant streams of people coming out of them; or at the large gold fountain in the centre, or at the marbled floors. Evidentially he had been here before to visit Mycroft, because he marched straight up to the information desk and they recognised him immediately.

“Sherlock!” One of the receptionists, a tiny little witch with a hat at least as tall as her, said. “Oh, I heard about Mycroft, I’m so terribly sorry. It must be so terribly difficult for you.”

“It hasn’t been easy.” Sherlock said in a low voice, sounding strained, almost like he was about to burst into tears. John looked at him in alarm, wondering how much was fake and how much was genuine, wondering if Sherlock even knew himself. “I’ve come… I’ve come to collect my brother’s things.”

“Of course. All the confidential and Ministry property has already been removed, so everything else you can take with you as long as we can check it before you go. Okay, Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes, thank you. I’ll head down there now.”

“Now, Sherlock, you know the rules.” She said gently, giving them each a visitor pass. “I’ll have to escort you. Come on, let’s go.”

The little witch lead the way down what seemed to be an endless winding warren of corridors to Mycroft’s office. John wondered just how they were going to get rid of her, but Sherlock’s face revealed nothing. They walked into the office. For a moment, John’s magical sense, which had already been on red alert, prickled. It looked exactly like the office from his dream. But then he relaxed. _Standard offices_ , he reminded himself. _They’re all the same_. It was just unfortunate that it would make it even harder to find their killer’s hide out.

“It’s… it’s just how I remember it.” Sherlock said, in a small voice. “But it looks so empty now. I think… I think part of me expected him to be waiting here.”

The small witch’s face crumpled in sympathy. She was about to say something when Sherlock’s knees suddenly buckled and he nearly fell, grabbing onto the desk. John helped him into a chair.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Sherlock said thickly, covering his face, sounding for all the world like a young man unable to stop his tears, and ashamed of them, bordering on the hysterical. “I’m sorry. I can’t- I can’t- he can’t be- Mycroft- he can’t- he can’t be-”

“Oh!” The little witch exclaimed, her heart breaking in sympathy, but clearly with no idea what to do.

“It’s alright, Sherlock.” John said, in his most soothing voice, putting an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “It’s alright, you can do this. You need to do this.” He looked up at the witch. “Can you give us a minute?” He asked.

“Oh, I… I’m not sure…”

“I think what Sherlock needs more than anything is a nice cup of hot, sweet tea.” John said.

“Of course, of course, I’ll go fetch it.” The little witch hurried out, glad as anyone would be to stop witnessing such a tragic scene. As soon as she was gone, Sherlock sat up straight, miraculously recovered from his breakdown.

“Bravo, John, that should give us a few minutes.” He said, opening drawers, and where there were any personal effects left dumping them on the desk.

“Not long though.” John said, nervously. “Really, Sherlock, it’s not right, using Mycroft’s death like that.”

“I’m using it to find out what happened to him.” Sherlock said stubbornly. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” The desk drawers were now empty, the sum of their contents amounting to a few fancy quills and fountain pens, some ink, a ring bearing the Holmes family crest for Mycroft to use on his personal seal, some wax, some notes that appeared to be memos to himself when he was reading Sherlock’s research, a handful of complicated reference books and, to John’s great surprise, a paperback copy of a Catherine Cookson novel he was fairly sure belonged to his mother. Sherlock examined each of them in seconds, rotating each object in his fingers and rifling through the pages of the books. Within a minute, he was finished.

“Nothing.” He said in disgust. “If Mycroft left any clues as to who he was investigating, they got rid of them when they cleared out his office. I should have come here as soon as I knew he was dead!” Losing his temper, he swept his arm across the desk, dumping the whole lot into the waste paper basket. John realised Sherlock still wasn’t as alright as he pretended to be, but didn’t comment, simply stooping down to rescue the books and the ring seal from the bin.

“So what now?” John asked.

Sherlock didn’t reply, thinking deeply behind his restless hands. Suddenly, he froze.

“Milverton.” He said.

“Who?”

“Don’t you remember?” Sherlock said. “The one on the panel to hear my research. Jim said he was against them, against Mycroft, from the start!”

“Sherlock, you can’t accuse someone of murder just because they didn’t like your brother!”

“No, John, it makes sense! Milverton took over my father’s job, he hated having Mycroft as a deputy. He always thought Mycroft would try and take his job. He was the only one who stood opposed to his appointment.”

“You never mentioned it before.” John said. He hadn’t appreciated before now what a difficult time Mycroft might have been having at work.

“It wasn’t important.” Sherlock dismissed. “The point is, Milverton hates him, he would have been delighted to have an excuse to kill him. He even tried to blackmail my brother, unsuccessfully of course, into supporting a proposition to prevent any new muggle-born children being accepted into Hogwarts.”

“It does sound suspicious.” John admitted reluctantly. “But where’s his office? Can we get there and back before that receptionist comes back?”

“Of course we can.” Sherlock said cheerily. “He was the Minister, Mycroft was his deputy, his office is only next door. Come on.” Without any further ado, he swept out of the room and to the next door in the hall, which had ‘ _Charles Augustus Milverton; Head of Dept. For International Magical Cooperation’_ painted in curling letters on it. Sherlock knocked and tried the handle, it was locked.

“Nobody home, good.” He said, tapping the handle with his wand. The door swung open and they slid in, closing and locking the door behind him.

“How did you do that?” John asked.

“Mycroft was very precise in his habits. He always had a coffee break with the Minister at this time. There was no reason to think Milverton would have changed his routine already.”

“I mean with the lock! We are inside the Ministry of Magic! _Alohomora_ shouldn’t work!”

“It doesn’t.” Sherlock grinned. “That was a little incantation of my own invention. But I’ll tell you later, we don’t have time to waste.” So saying, he marched over to the desk.

“What are we looking for?” John asked urgently, going over too. “If Milverton killed him, he would have cleared up by now.”

“There are always traces.” Sherlock said. “And Mycroft was stabbed through, there would have been a lot of blood.” He glanced at John and recited. “And his blood will cover the wood, and the snake will be pinned to the board, and blood will cover the wood, and blood will cover the skull in the wood; remember? You were quite specific.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out some green silk gloves, Mycroft’s green gloves, and slipped them on over his own hands. The gloves were moulded to the shape of Mycroft’s hands and bagged slightly on Sherlock’s wrists, the fingers stretched to their full length over Sherlock’s narrow digits. “Don’t touch anything, John.” He advised, crouching down so he was on eye level with the green felt that covered the desk. “You never know what traces we might leave, either. Look at this felt. It’s new. Little more than a week old, judging by the evenness of its colour. Only the middle has faded slightly, where it gets the most sun, and even there it’s been protected when he’s been working on it.”

“You think he replaced the felt?”

“He would have had to, if he had ‘pinned the snake to the board’.”

“Oh! Oh no, you think that’s what it means?”

“It seems likely.” Sherlock said, and John thought he detected just the slightest tremor. “Such a stupid way to kill someone. It would have been so much easier and cleaner with magic, he could have used an Unforgivable Curse and left no trace. But his hatred made him reckless.” He carried on examining  every inch of the felt, moving quickly and methodically, but not quite quickly enough for John, whose heart was pounding with exhilaration. He was feeling brave, reckless. Maybe that was what gave him the courage to finally ask the question that had been sitting in the back of his mind all this time, that had been worrying him constantly, but that he hadn’t dare ask, for fear of the answer.

“Sherlock,” he asked. “Is Jim really mixed up in all this? In all this anti-muggle, ruling the world stuff?”

Sherlock glanced up and then turned back to his work. “Jim’s just interested in immortality. I doubt he subscribes to Voldemort’s goals.”

“But you think he might help Voldemort towards them if it achieves his own ends too?”

“That’s why he needs to stay with Molly.” Sherlock said, clearly wanting to change from an uncomfortable subject. “He’ll make the right decision if he stays with Molly.”

“I think he’ll make the right decision anyway.” John said, firmly. “Jim’s reckless, and he breaks the rules, but he’s no killer. He doesn’t hate people enough. He would never help Voldemort.”

“Let’s see what’s under this felt.” Sherlock answered, tearing it off the desk. He inhaled sharply.

“What? What is it?” John asked, going over to look.

“Careless, very careless.” Sherlock said. “But why would he… oh, of course.” He pointed at the angry gash in the wood, a deep gouge where something had been driven in with force. “He wasn’t much good at magic, Milverton. Maybe he’s even borderline Squib. It explains everything. Why he killed my brother by hand, why he tried to blackmail him when he wouldn’t agree instead of using the Imperius curse, why he was so resentful of muggle science being used in magic; and why he couldn’t get this repaired without alerting suspicion. He probably thought he could just leave it as it was for a few months until this was all forgotten and then make an excuse then.”

“It would have to be some excuse.” John said, looking at the horrible wound and thinking of all the implications of it. “That looks like a spear or something. Where on earth did he get it?”

“The blood traces will prove him guilty, no matter what excuse me makes.” Sherlock answered.

“But he’s cleaned it all off.”

“That’s why I said traces, John.” Sherlock said, pulling out his wand. “ _Uvos._ ” He said to it, and the wand lit up with a peculiar purplish light.

“What are you doing?” John asked, as Sherlock began to shine it over the desk, over every inch of the cut and the surrounding area.

“It’s more of your muggle science.” Sherlock said. “A kind of UV light. Good for illuminating even the slightest stain, even just where one was. Blood is rather sticky, you know.” He looked around some more.

“Nothing?” John asked.

“Impossible!” Sherlock said. “It must be here!”

“If my prophecy really was true, Sherlock, there would be blood all over the wood of the desk.” John said, urgently. “We must have been wrong. We’re running out of time, Sherlock, we’re going to be caught. We’ll have to come back another day and-”

“Blood will cover the wood.” Sherlock said, slowly. “The wood, John! Not the wood of the desk, it means a forest!”

“A forest? The forest on the map?”

Sherlock was opening the top drawer, throwing the contents out onto the floor and scrabbling for a false bottom. “The map was made of heavy parchment, John! It might just have absorbed the blood. And Milverton was careless, he was so careless- yes!” From the drawer, he had pulled a large, heavy sheet of folded parchment. Even from here, John could see it was stained dark brown.

“Sherlock.” He said, warningly, but Sherlock seemed to be in a trance, unfolding the parchment over the desk. It crackled slightly as he peeled it apart, where the blood had dried. His hands were trembling. John didn’t blame him, his own stomach was turning. How must Sherlock be feeling?

It was the same map. They could tell by the outlines. But most of the central detail was consumed by a huge red bloodstain and a tear that matched up exactly with the hole in the desk. It was lucky John had seen the map, they couldn’t have made out any detail on this one.

“And blood will cover the snake and the skull in the wood.” Sherlock said, in a strange, distant voice. He seemed frozen.

“Sherlock.” John called. “Sherlock, we need to go.”

“It was him, John. He killed my brother.”

“I know, Sherlock, I know, but we need to go. If we’re caught we’ll be dead too, or arrested.” He could hear footsteps on the stairs outside. “Sherlock, someone’s coming!”

Sherlock suddenly sprang into action, refolding the map and shoving it back in the false bottom; the Aurors would need something to find. John pulled his sleeves over his hands and smoothed the felt back down as best as he could with his fists while Sherlock piled everything back into the drawer and slammed it shut. But it was too late; the footsteps passed the door, the chink of cups on a tray revealing it to be their witch, who was about to discover they weren’t in Mycroft’s office. They were going to be found out, and Milverton would be onto them. He would destroy the evidence before Sherlock and John ever managed to persuade someone to investigate. He would never be caught.  
                “John.” Sherlock said. “Do you trust me?”

John’s heart always sank when Sherlock said that, it meant they were about to do something stupid. But he said “Yes.”

Sherlock dropped something on the floor, like a tiny strip of metal, followed by some powder; at the same time grabbing John’s arm, shouting “The office of Mycroft Holmes!” and dropping some fire out of his wand. There was a bright flash of greenish-white light, and they were standing, blinded, in the fireplace of Mycroft’s office. Sherlock staggered over to the desk and sat back down. John leant on the mantelpiece.

“Magnesium?” He gasped, breathless. He felt like he had been fired out of a cannon. “Did you know it would work on people?”

“I do now.” Sherlock answered, half-laughing, a breathless sort of sob. The little witch came in.

“Here you are dears.” She said. “Some nice hot tea. Just what the healer ordered.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock said, and John thought perhaps the tears running unnoticed down his cheeks this time were genuine.

 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Sherlock had been almost silent the entire time they had been drinking their cups of tea, and wasn’t getting any more lively now they were leaving. It seemed to John that the debilitating grief of the first few days had set back in as his grabbed his friend by the arm and steered him out. In a way, he was glad; he had feared for Sherlock’s safety had his friend gone, enraged and irrational, after Milverton.

“Come on.” He said, pulling his friend across the lobby. “Let’s just get home, and then we’ll write to Dumbledore and tell him everything, okay? Let’s just get home.”

Sherlock stopped dead.

“Sherlock, please.” John pleaded. “We can’t go after Milverton today, we just can’t. We aren’t prepared. We’d kill him, Sherlock, and I don’t want you to be that sort of person; especially not when we’d get caught. And that’s only if we succeeded. Milverton could easily kill us, then he’d get away with self defence, nobody would ever know he murdered Mycroft and he’d know the Order was onto him! Please, Sherlock. Let’s just go.”

“A spear, John.”

“I know, Sherlock, and it’s awful, but-”

“No, John, where did he get a spear?” Sherlock said, raising his wand and pointing it towards the fountain in the middle of the hall, pointing it at the proud centaur, and the traditional spear he held aloft in his hand. “ _Uvos_.”

In front of hundreds of witnesses passing through the lobby, the spear glowed beneath the purple light and stains appeared on the spear, running down from the point and then splattered up the shaft. Closer examination by the Auror office revealed not only that the end matched perfectly with the wound in Mycroft Holmes’ chest, but that the spear had been crudely broken off into an easier to carry size and then reattached with a cheap, low quality, binding potion. The Ministry was searched from top to bottom, and Milverton was found, bending over his desk, trying desperately to repair the crack with an unresponsive wand. It was too early to bring Voldemort’s name into things at the trial a week later; it would only alert his followers that someone outside knew about them, and give credit to Milverton’s story that he had found Mycroft going through his things and, believing him to be a traitor, had got into a fight. As it was, nobody believed him, and the motive was put down to professional envy of his younger, more talented, assistant. Mycroft’s reputation remained unsullied and great, and Milverton was sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban, with no hope of bail. A satisfactory result. Justice had been done. But all Sherlock said when they left the court was “I should have got him myself.” He sounded disgusted with himself, and before John could say anything, had strode away into one of the fireplaces in the Ministry’s lobby, well above the court rooms, and disappeared to who knew where. It was late before he returned to John’s house, where he received a light scolding from John’s mother and was sent straight up to bed. They were returning to Hogwarts the next day for the last time, and needed all the sleep they could get; but as John lay awake through the night, he suspected that, down on the camp bed, Sherlock was doing exactly the same thing.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

John had hoped, and he knew Molly had hoped it too, that their last term at Hogwarts would have been spent making some of their best memories. Instead, they seemed to spend it barely keeping their group together. The grief seemed to hit Sherlock more severely when they went back to normal; he seemed changed, quieter. John knew he was restless, impatiently waiting only to graduate and to go and help the Order if they needed him. It was made worse by the fact that a week into the new term Sherlock had been called to Dumbledore’s office where he was told that the information Mycroft had literally given his life for had been gained too late; when they reached the marked point in the forest, Voldemort had already been gone some time. It meant he had already come to Britain to join his followers, and that meant it was only a matter of time before things began to get serious. The situation seemed hopeless, and all they could do was wait for it to begin.

There was also a peculiar tension between Sherlock and Jim. Jim was trying to be his usual self, teasing and joking and flirting as much as he always had, but his attempts to engage with Sherlock as they used to were always met with a cold response. For all his pretence, John could see Jim was changing too, spending less and less time with them, literally eating his meals with them and then making some excuse and disappearing. He had even dropped Muggle Studies, which seemed such a waste this close to the exams, but when questioned he would just shrug and say he just didn’t feel like doing it anymore. John didn’t buy it, but what could he do? The bags under Jim’s eyes were getting bigger.

Molly was too busy worrying about Sherlock to worry about Jim as well. She was being extra kind and attentive to him, getting into the habit of carrying Ringo about with her just as he carried Agatha, just because she knew he liked to see him out and about. She was constantly trying to find new topics of conversation and things to do to occupy Sherlock, and did her best to make sure he was never on his own for too long. Sherlock presumably noticed her attempts, but for once didn’t rebuke her, responding as positively as Sherlock ever could. In spite of his coldness and detachment because of feelings he didn’t understand, John thought he was doing his best too, to keep them together until the end. The whole term had an air of finality over it. This seemed so much like the end and the impending finale seemed to seep its way into everything. With the threat and stress of the final NEWT exams and Gryffindor losing to Hufflepuff in the finals of the Quidditch Cup, it seemed like the year, and their time at Hogwarts, was sure to end on a low.

Still, the exams somehow seemed to be a blessing in disguise. They were all busy studying seriously- even Sherlock seemed to have decided he ought to try it once while he was at school- but it brought them together again. Even Jim would sit with them in the library or the Gryffindor common room, looking over his text books and notes, helping Molly with such a tender look in his eyes, that John felt sure the little whispering fears in the back of his mind were going to prove to be unnecessary. He hadn’t even seen Jim talking to Moran since they had come back. Maybe it would all be alright. Jim would make the right decision.

                They were kept on to the very end, however, the Charms NEWT being the very last paper in the exam timetable, a week before the end of term. Even the Gryffindors who had finished earlier in the session had restrained themselves while others had been trying to study, but now there was nobody to bother but the OWL students (who had exams right up until the end of term) it was time for a serious party. Nobody cared that Sherlock was there, particularly as it was him who charmed the house elves into supplying food for them again; and Jim was by now accepted as simply a necessary edition. Other Gryffindors had gotten into the inter-house spirit too, and there were a number of Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs and Slytherins milling about with their Gryffindor friends, marvelling at the common room. The party was loud and boisterous; it was almost certain that the teachers would be able to hear it, but they seemed to be turning a blind eye while the seventh years blew off steam.

                “I’m just so glad they’re finally over!” Molly said, stretching. “I almost don’t care if I get a job at St Mungo’s now, I just don’t want to do any more exams!”

                “Sorry, Molly, but there’s more to come.”  John said. “If you want to be a Healer, you have to pass a test when you finish training. McGonagall told me the last time I had a careers meeting.”

                At the moment, it was just the two of them, perched on opposite arms of the same armchair; Sherlock had gone down to the kitchens to get a fresh supply of food, and Jim, as usual, was the centre of attention, off mingling with everyone and anyone, telling stories and jokes and getting everyone to love him. As such, it was only John who heard Molly’s startling revelation.

                “A healer? Oh, no, didn’t I tell you? I want to work in the morgue.”

                She said it so matter of factly John couldn’t help but laugh. “What?”

                “I’m serious!” She said. “It’s one of those jobs that nobody wants to do, but it still helps people. I mean, imagine what it would be like, if there was no-one to tell you what happened to your loved ones, or to, you know, clean them up…”

                “You’re right.” John said, ruffling her hair. “And it kind of suits you, Molly. Helping people behind the scenes, that’s so like you. You really should have been-”

                “In Hufflepuff, I know.” She huffed, and the two of them burst out laughing. “Oh, where have the other two got to?” Molly said, standing up to get a better look around. “I wanted all of us to be tog…” She trailed off, frozen. John followed her gaze. The milling crowd in the common room had parted slightly, allowing for a clear view of Jim. Jim, and the Ravenclaw girl he had in his lap, kissing her deeply on the lips.

                Perhaps Jim sensed them staring, because his eyes opened, and he looked at them. Just for a second, while his lips were disengaged, John could swear he smirked at them. And then he carried on.

                Suddenly, John could hear his own words in his head, a conversation he and Jim had had way back on Halloween.

                _“I didn’t exactly have much of a choice. According to her we were never going out to start with.”_

_“And she was cheating on you.”_

_“Yeah.”_

“Oh.” John said. It seemed inadequate to the current situation. “Oh, Molly.”

Molly said nothing, instead running past him, pushing her way through the crowd over to Jim. She stood in front of him.

Jim looked up from the Ravenclaw. “Hi, Molly.” He said, and smirked.

Molly looked at him, looked ready to say something, but instead turned and ran from the common room, pounding upstairs to her bedroom. Jim, his work done, pushed the girl off him and sauntered calmly out of the room, feigning oblivion to John’s glare. Jim had always said this would have to happen eventually. It had been foolish of John to think that Jim’s stubbornness would ever have let him change which path he walked, once he had set a foot on it.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

John was furious, so furious that he followed after Jim, down to the dungeons, and paced back and forth before the entrance to the Slytherin common room until he forced a terrified third year to let him in. He went straight to the boys’ bedrooms, ready to yell at Jim as soon as he found him, but to his surprise, when he entered the bedroom, Jim was throwing stuff into his trunk. John was completely disarmed.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Packing.” Jim answered. “There’s no point hanging around here now the exams are over, so I’m off. Things to do.”

“Things to do?!” John repeated angrily. “Oh yeah? What kind of things, Jim? Taking over the Ministry?! Killing the muggle borns?!”

“Keep it down, Johnny-boy!” Jim hissed. “You don’t know who’s listening!”

“Why did you do that to Molly?! If you wanted to split up with her, you should have told her to her face! Coward!”

“Urrgh, that.” Jim rolled his eyes, turning his face away; but not quickly enough for it to not be plainly obvious to John that he was upset. “Sorry, sweetie, but I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“You’re cruel, Jim.” John shook his head. “I didn’t think you were, but look at you. How can you do that to Molly? And getting into all that Voldemort stuff, how can you not realise it’s wrong?”

“Oh, would you stop with the moral, immoral stuff!” Jim snapped. “What is so wrong with siding with the winning team, huh?!”

“Jim.” John was appalled. “What are you saying?”

“Well, it’s true.” Jim said, sulkily. “I’m not into any of that muggle born killing crap. It is, absolute crap, he’s crazy. But he’s also immortal, or damn near to it, so I figure that means that pretty soon he’s going to be able to do whatever he wants.”

“So you’re going to do what he says?”

“What? No, of course not, don’t be stupid.” Jim said, and for a second he grinned like his old self. “I never do what anyone says, Johnny-boy, you know me better than that. I just want to find out what he knows about becoming immortal. And what’s so wrong with that, anyway, huh? I just want to stop people from dying. Your dad, Molly’s dad, Mycroft, all of them could’ve been saved if we had the secret. Did you not see Sherley, John? Didn’t you see him the day he found out Mycroft was dead?! Didn’t you see how he lost it?! Sherley! He lost it! And he’s the most in control person I know!” Jim took a deep breath, calming himself. “It’s destroyed him. Ruined him. Well, it’s not going to happen to me, Johnny-boy. Not to me.”

“Jim…please.” John said quietly. “You don’t have to do this. Don’t do this. Please. Just unpack your things, come upstairs, apologise to Molly and stay with us, Jim. Do the right thing.  Don’t do… well, this.”

Jim slammed the lid shut on his trunk, and turned to John. “John, listen to me.” He said, unusually serious and sincere. He grabbed hold of John’s arm, squeezing it earnestly. “If you take my advice, you’ll get out. You’ve finished school now, it’s done. Get out of the Wizarding world, John. Go and get a job in a bank or the police or something far away from magic. Things are going to go badly for the muggle born, Johnny-boy. There’s nothing you or me or Sherlock or anyone can do about it. Things are going to go badly. People are going to be hurt. Don’t let it be you and your family.”

John pulled away, roughly. “I’m not leaving.” He said. “I’m not frightened, Jim, and even if I was, I wouldn’t just quit.”

Jim said nothing, so John turned and walked away. There was nothing more to be said.

That was the last any of them would see of Jim for a long time. By the next morning, he was gone.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

By the time John got back to the Gryffindor common room, Sherlock was also back and the tables were once again burdened down with illicit cakes and food. Sherlock clearly wasn’t impressed at being there on his own.

“Where were you?” He demanded. “Aren’t Molly and Jim with you?”

“No.” John said, shortly. “Jim was snogging another girl and now he’s packing to leave. Molly, however, is upstairs. Come on.”

John lead the way across the Common Room, people sensing his anger and moving aside to let them pass. The second they set foot on the staircase up to the girls’ dormitories, of course, it turned into a hard stone slide, impossibly slippery. Not that John was going to let that stop him; ever since he had gotten onto the Quidditch team he had added press ups to his morning work out, and his arms were as strong as his legs. Bracing himself, hands and feet against the walls, he began to shuffle his way up that way, to the delight and accolade of the boys and the outrage of the girls. Sherlock, annoyed that this method of going up would probably end embarrassingly for him, went for the simpler method of getting a girl to stand with a foot on the slope, turning it back into stairs, and making her promise to keep it there until they made it up. John dropped down onto the staircase and climbed the rest of the way normally.

The final year girls were, just like the boys, on the third floor of their tower, and Molly was alone when they went in, sitting on her bed, her pillow wrapped in her arms. She was crying slightly.

“Oh, boys, how did you get up here?” She asked, wiping her eyes hastily. “I’m sorry. I’ll be alright in a minute.”

“Don’t be sorry, Molly.” John said, going and putting an arm round her. “He’s a jerk. Tell me if you want me to go and hit him, because I really feel in the mood right now.”

“No, no, don’t do that.” Molly said, shaking her head. “I’m sure he… I’m sure he didn’t want to hurt me.”

“Don’t defend him.” Sherlock snapped. “He obviously decided he doesn’t like you anymore and because he doesn’t care a jot about you he decided to end it in the cruellest, most theatrical way possible-”

“You’re wrong.” John said.

“What?”

 “You’re wrong.” John repeated. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s an ass. But he was upset. Anyway, if he didn’t care, Sherlock, why did he wait until now?” He turned to Molly. “Molly… he’s been thinking about this for a while. But he didn’t do it while you were worried about Sherlock, or while you were trying to do exams. He must care about you a little, at least. I think… I think he just wants you to hate him. So you’ll forget him. So… so you won’t follow him.”

Sherlock muttered something derisive, but John ignored him. He knew he was right. His magical instincts were telling him so, and that was an instinct he had learnt to trust.

“I know.” Molly said quietly. “I thought that too, John. That’s why it upsets me so much. Because… because… that idiot is going somewhere we can’t follow.”

John looked at the crying girl in shock. He had always assumed Molly had been oblivious to Jim’s more dangerous friends and ideas, but it seemed he was wrong. Perhaps, as always, Molly had been more aware than any of them. John wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug.  He didn’t think she noticed when Sherlock slipped quietly out of the room.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

It was time to go home for good. The final year students were all together in the Great Hall, having just listened to farewell speeches from Dumbledore and each of the Heads of House. Now there was nothing to do but mill about and chat until it was time to go and catch the train. Molly had gone off to say goodbye to some girls she knew, and John and Sherlock were sat near the door, waiting for her.

“I’ll miss this place.” John sighed. “I’m going to help Dean out at the school for a few weeks, just till I get my NEWT results, so I can see if St Mungos will take me. He said, if you wanted, you could-”

“John.” Sherlock cut him off. “I’m not coming to stay with you again.”

“What? Well, okay, but even from your house-”

“I’ve found rooms.” Sherlock said, abruptly. “A little flat in the centre of London, on Baker Street. A central location will be better, for detective work.”

“Oh, good, great.” John paused. “Are you going to be okay on your own?”

“I’ll take Twitchy with me.” Sherlock said. “If your mother can spare her.”

“Oh, yeah, of course, yes.” John said, hastily. At the end of the holidays Sherlock had sent his house elf to help John’s mother, not wanting her to get lonely in the big house on her own. The arrangement hadn’t worked terribly well; John’s mother feeling bad for making a guest help with housework, and Twitchy always longing to do more than she was allowed, but they had gotten by. Harriet in particular had loved the strange little creature, and Twitchy her; John had been forced to laugh when in one of her letters his mother reported how Twitchy had been telling her that Harriet reminded her of Sherlock at that age. But now, he supposed, it was time for them to move on too. “So.” He said, deciding to deal with the matter at hand. “Are you actually going to start on the consulting detective thing, or are you going up against Voldemort first? Because I want to help, Sherlock, I can’t stand by while someone like that gets into power.”

Sherlock was silent for some time. When he finally spoke, it was with all the precision and timbre of a rehearsed speech. “The best thing you can do, John Watson, is what you always do. Befriend people who aren’t easy to befriend. Believe in people who don’t deserve it. Help people just because you can. Be strong and brave and noble, be every inch a Gryffindor, be a good man. Because this is going to be a dirty fight, John, and there won’t be enough good men left at the end of it.”

“There’ll be us, Sherlock.” John said, not sure how to reply to that. “There’ll be us. Both of us.”

Sherlock seemed to struggle to think about what to say next. Finally, he began to reply. “There's an ill wind coming, like we’ve never seen before, John. It’ll be cold and bitter and people will…”

He trialled off as Molly came back to join them.

“It’s time to go.” She said, smiling. “Ready?”

“Ready.” They said together.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

A few hours later they were standing together on Platform 9 ¾ for the last time, preparing to go their separate ways. They had stood together for some time, unwilling to part, but now there was hardly anyone else around; even the train had left again. It really was time to go.

“Both of you had better to keep in touch!” Molly said, throwing an arm around each of their necks and hugging them tightly, kissing each of them on the cheek. She was doing her best not to cry. “I’ll miss you, so you have to keep in touch.”

“We’ll do our best, Molly.” John reassured her.

“You’d better.” She said, hugging John again. “I’ll miss you.”

“It’s been seven years,” Sherlock said conversationally, accepting his own hug. “And I still don’t know why you weren’t put into Hufflepuff.”

“Oh, shut up.” She squeezed him tightly. “Be good, Sherlock.”

“Molly, I’m not a child.”

“I know.” She said, touching his cheek gently. “But still, Sherlock. Be good.”

“Goodbye, Molly.”

“Goodbye.”

The two of them stood together, waving at her as she left. Finally she disappeared through the barrier and they turned back to one another.

“I’m going to get going too, then.” Sherlock said. “Twitchy promised to have dinner ready for me at Baker Street.”

“Sherlock…” John said desperately, though not entirely sure what he wanted to say. “Just… just be careful, okay? And keep in touch.”

“I don’t really do keeping in touch, John.” Sherlock said, not unkindly.

“Yeah, well, you can learn.” John said stubbornly, making Sherlock snort with laughter, setting John chuckling too. He shook his head. “This isn’t the last time we’ll meet, Sherlock, I won’t let it be. I’ll see you soon, okay?”  He put his hand out.

Sherlock looked at the proffered hand in bewilderment, then seemed to understand. He grasped it in his own and they shook hands on the very threshold of the adult world; Sherlock Holmes and his friend, John Watson.

 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

 

It would be many years before John would see the note that Mycroft had left for Sherlock, but he would no more forget the words when he saw them than Sherlock had, ever since he had read them at the house that day. Mycroft Holmes’ final letter, written in his usual elegant handwriting without suffering a single tremor in his hand as he wrote it, was in many ways his finest.

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I intend to burn this letter on my return as I hope you will have no cause to read it. I fear you would think me disgustingly sentimental and, as we so often are- more often than you care to admit, in fact- we are of one mind on that point. And so, brother, I shall be brief. If you are reading this, I have failed in my task; or, at the very least, failed to return to you as I intended. For that inconvenience, I most sincerely apologise. Yet hurt happens, Sherlock, and perhaps it is time you learnt to deal with it like everyone else._

_You told me to choose a side and you were quite correct. Tonight my work for the Order leads me into more difficult and dangerous circumstances than I have faced before, circumstances I naturally cannot divulge safely here, but I am confident you will work out all that you need to. That talent of yours means if I could have anyone behind me this evening, I would have had it be you, Sherlock, if only you weren’t so young, and if only I could be assured of your safety. To tell you the truth, Sherlock, in spite of my confidence in my own abilities, I am not convinced they will be enough tonight. All this seems a far cry from our grandmother’s little games._

_Therefore, it seems to me that if this is to be our last communique, it is my duty to impart to you some final brotherly advice. Unfortunately I have no doubt you would disregard it as you have systematically disregarded all my advice since the age of four, so I will not waste time nor ink. I will just remind you of your own words: that John Watson is a good man, that your friends are beside you now; and beg you to rely on them.  Kindly remember, Sherlock, this time it’s a team game._

_Your brother,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

 

 


	11. Chapter Five Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Hogwarts. Part 1/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pretty short part today, but this is just how it divided up best. We’re into the final chapter!!! (Of three parts >.

 

Chapter Five Part 1/3

_September 1975_

John had not seen Sherlock Holmes, nor Jim Moriarty, since they had left school. He had tried with Sherlock, at first, but there was only so many unanswered letters you could send, only so many times you could be told by an old house elf that Master Sherlock was not currently in at 221B Baker Street. As for Jim, John hadn’t contacted him at all. He had no way to know how to, even if he had wanted to. John supposed both of them were fighting, on opposite sides of the war. At first, for the first few years, all had been quiet; he could hope everything was safe or fear that it was simply going on below the perception of the average witch or wizard. Still, even at the beginning, there had been rumours, whispers that were enough to scare people. People were being reckless, in case war came, getting married at the drop of a hat- Arthur Weasley among them, marrying a girl called Molly Prewett. John had sent the tiny announcement from the paper to Sherlock, a memento of the first deduction he had ever seen Sherlock make. There had been no reply.

Over the years, however, the war had increased in intensity. People had started disappearing. Muggle-borns and muggles themselves began to be attacked. The Ministry had to issue pamphlets and public information drives to urge people to be vigilant and careful. Voldemort grew in power, until they were warned never to speak his name aloud, in case he heard. And on New Year’s Eve, 1972, the Dark Mark had appeared over the skies of London for the first time. John had seen it as he was leaving the hospital with some of the other trainees to go for an end of year drink, and had recognised it immediately. From then on, every time he saw it in the sky, John’s leg would ache with danger and his skin would all come out in goosebumps. He had never shaken his magical sense off. The next day he had written a letter to Dumbledore, wanting to be allowed to help, but had simply received the reply that it would be better for him to remain at the hospital, as there would likely be many injuries and casualties. At first John resented it, threw the letter on the fire in frustration, sure he was being deliberately kept out of it because he wasn’t good enough, and they didn’t want his help, and so Dumbledore, Sherlock, all of them, were just trying to invent jobs to keep him out of the way. Yet as the war got worse, and the injuries and fatalities started to pile up, he knew he wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. They couldn’t all be off defeating the baddies. Someone had to fight them by foiling their worst intentions. Still, people died. Too many, over the years. The first one had been in August, 1973, exactly ten years to the day since he had met Sherlock Holmes. John always wondered if he had been reminiscing, if he had been distracted; he couldn’t remember. But that was the first patient he lost when they came to him with injuries received from a Death Eater. He was glad that day, and he was glad now, that Molly had been on duty that day. She had come up from the morgue to collect the body and he hadn’t realised how badly he had been hurting until she hugged him tightly.

In the end, Molly was the only one from school he had managed to keep in touch with. It helped when they worked in the same place; sometimes even on the same shift. They met for coffee sometimes. Sometimes, occasionally, he wondered if it could go further than that. Everyone always said they would be a good couple and a relationship with Molly, he knew, would be easy, comfortable. Perhaps comfort was all they needed in dark days like this. Yet he usually dismissed the notion. He would just take it slow, see what happened, see if his at the moment honestly platonic love for his friend would change, and if her feelings would change too. There was no way of knowing until it did or didn’t happen.

She should have been on shift that day, she had told him she was working the mid-shift too, where they would start at twelve noon and finish at eight. They had been planning on going to get some food together at one of the eateries round the corner; nothing classy, just something quick, because neither of them ever bothered to cook after getting in so late. He waited outside the entrance to St Mungos for a while, but when by eight-fifteen she still hadn’t arrived, he decided to go down to the morgue and see what was keeping her. Her boss, an aging wizard named Marlow, was just putting on his coat to go home, leaving the morgue in the hands of the one member of staff whose turn it was to be on duty overnight.

“Evening, Marlow.” John said. “Is Molly still here? I’ve been waiting for her.”

“She wasn’t in today, she wrote in sick.” He answered, gruffly. “We really could have used her, too. Twenty-three today, all killed at once, out in the suburbs. Looks like they were having some sort of meeting. Probably trying to decide what to do about the Dark Lord, poor wretches.” He shook his head. “This is the worst so far. Once that’s in the papers, no-one will be sleeping soundly in their beds at night.”

John nodded, mutely. There wasn’t much you could say in the face of so much death. It was one thing when it was just curses and hexes; however injured someone was, there was hope. There was the chance the healers could save them. But now the followers of Voldemort, that the press were calling Death Eaters, were beginning to speed up their work. No long, slow torture, no warning shots. Now there was just the unforgivable, unforgiving green flash and a pile of corpses to clear up, and there was nothing any healer could do for them. It was too awful to think about, and too terrible not to.

But he was worried about Molly. She had never taken a day off sick in her life. Even at school, when she had been running a high fever, she would still determinedly be there in class, even when she couldn’t see in a straight line. When there was so much work to be done here, John couldn’t imagine her taking a sick day for anything less than imminent death. He decided to get a take away and call in on her on the way home, see if he could at least write her a prescription from the hospital pharmacy. She probably needed to see a doctor, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

Molly lived about a twenty minute walk from the hospital, on a nice street that was in the middle ground between a mostly-wizard district and a muggle one. She had a witch next door and a wizard across the street, and a few in her more distant neighbours; but all the rest were muggles who had no idea what was among them. There was an Indian man who ran the corner shop, and his son had opened up a curry takeaway across the street. The pavement between them had become something of a warzone; the father did not approve of his son’s business model, telling him over and over that these English men did not want proper food, and the son saying they never would unless people tried. It was true that the business was barely kept afloat and most of the customers were other Asians who were moving to London, but John and Molly were regulars there too. No matter what was grumbled about behind the counter at the corner shop, the food from the takeaway was rather good. John went in and bought the full works, hoping Molly wasn’t so ill that he couldn’t persuade her to eat something, buying a slightly hotter curry than usual that would effectively clear any blocked sinuses. That done, he walked up the road to her house, clutching the paper bag to him, trying to keep warm in the bitter Autumn air. The contents smelt beautiful, exotic. His stomach rumbled in preparation.

When he rang the doorbell, Molly did not come to the door. Frowning, he wondered if she was asleep, and if he should leave her to it. But then, she needed food as much as sleep, and he wanted to check on her. He rang the bell again. Finally, after a minute or two, Molly opened the door, but only a crack. It was on a chain.

“Hello?” She said as she opened it, cautiously.

“Hi, Molly.” John said. “They told me at work you’d gone off sick. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, yes, I’m okay, thank you, John.” She said, still sounding nervous. Through the crack in the door, he could see her face was pale and anxious, but her eyes were sharp and alert. Hopefully she was on the mend. That or she was never ill in the first place, and something else had happened. She still hadn’t taken the door off the chain.

“Can I come in?” John asked.

“Um, well, not really.” She said. “Not that it’s anything personal. It’s not that I don’t want you here, John, it’s just, um, there’s this leaflet in the staffroom- have you seen it? It’s the red one with the black letters- and it says we should all be careful about who we let into our homes so I have to be careful of letting you, into my home.”

“Molly,” John said, when she paused for breath in her rambling. “It says be careful about letting strangers into your home. You’ve known me for twelve years.”

“I know, but still, best to be, um, careful. I’m supposed to ask you a question to prove it’s you.”

“Alright.” John sighed. The sooner he got inside, the sooner he could find out what had caused her so much alarm. “What are you going to ask me?”

“I don’t know.” She said, biting her lip. “What would only you know?”

“I can’t tell you, Molly; it would sort of defeat the object.”

“Um, okay, um… who was my favourite Beatle?”

“Ringo Starr.” John said. “Now can I come in, or do you want to take my fingerprints too?”

Molly glanced behind her, but then nodded, smiled shakily, and took the chain off the door. John stepped into the hall, but she didn’t move, as if reluctant to let him in any further, reaching round him to close the door, just so she could stay in front of him. At the moment she closed the front door, John thought he heard the slightest movement from upstairs.

“Is there someone else here?” He asked.

“No, just me.”

“Right.” John decided to believe her. These were dark days, and the paranoia could get to you. “Well, it’s good to be cautious and all, Molly, but that wasn’t a great question. Most people would guess the answer as long as they knew your ferret’s name.”

“Only if they knew the Beatles.” Molly sniffed. “And most wizards don’t.”

“True.” John laughed at her disgruntled tone. “Never mind. I bought an Indian, are you hungry?”

“Um, actually, John, I was just going to go back to sleep…”

“You should at least try to eat.” John said. “If you’ve lost your appetite, I bought naan and poppadum too, they’re quite easy to swallow…”

 “No, I… I don’t think I could eat a thing.” She said. “I’m just going to go back to bed, I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow. I’ll see you at work, okay?”

“Do you want me to check you over?” John asked. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing, just a cold.”

“You don’t sound like you have a cold, Molly.” John said, taking her hand. Her hand was sweating slightly, but her forehead was cool. This was nerves, not fever. “Molly, what is it? What’s wrong? Has someone hurt you?” He remembered the sound he had heard a moment before. “Molly, who’s upstairs?”

“John, there’s no-one upstairs!”

“Molly!”

“John, just listen to me!”

John was going to reply, but then his eyes fell on the banister, and everything he was going to say fell out of his head. There, in plain sight, hanging over the bottom of the banister, was a long black coat and an old Ravenclaw scarf. He knew both of them immediately, though it had been more than five years since he had seen either of them. That was just like Sherlock. He would never buy new clothes while the ones he had could still possibly function.

Molly saw where he was looking and grabbed the coat and scarf from the banister, balling them up in her arms. It was too late.

“John…” She said.

“Sherlock’s here?” John asked. “He’s upstairs?”

“No, no, he’s not here!”

“Why are you lying to me?” John demanded. “What’s going on? You kept saying you weren’t in touch with them either!”

“I’m not! I wasn’t! It’s just…”

John started upstairs. “I want to see him. It’s been five years, for goodness’ sake.”

“John, no! John, you can’t go up there!” She grabbed hold of his arm, but John pulled free.

“Why not?” He asked, exasperated. “He’s my friend. I’ve missed him. I want to see him.”

“But he doesn’t want to see you!” Molly answered. Upstairs there came the slam of a window shutting. Sherlock had escaped. Molly visibly relaxed. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Molly, what’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you, John, I’m sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Because he made me promise!”

“Why? What’s going on? Why doesn’t he want me to see him?”

“I… I don’t know…”

“Molly, for goodness’ sake, I was worried he was dead! Tell me _something_. Is he hurt?”

“No, no, he’s fine, really, he’s fine. He’s just… staying with me for a few days.” She couldn’t meet his eye. Suddenly, John understood.

“Oh. So you two are…?”

“Are what?” She blinked, then caught on. “Oh! No, no, no, no, no.”

“He probably doesn’t like us going for coffee, huh? You should have just said.”

“John, no, it’s not like that!”

“Then what is it like, Molly? I don’t care if the two of you are going out.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…”

They fell into silence. John could see that she wasn’t going to tell him anything. “Fine.” He said. “Fine. The two of you can enjoy this. Tell Sherlock if he wants to thank me he can come see me.” He dumped the paper bag on the floor.

“John, don’t be angry, you just don’t understand…”

“Then will you explain?”

Her silence was all the answer he needed. He turned and left, walking round the block. Molly’s back garden joined onto the back garden of the house facing the other way in the next street, but, of course, there was no sign of Sherlock.  For whatever reason, he didn’t want to see John, and nobody would tell him why.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

The next day Molly was back at work and they had a normal, if somewhat strained, conversation. How could John help but feel hurt? Molly had often said that she hadn’t seen or heard from Sherlock either, but it looked rather like the two of them were more intimate now than they had ever been. He kept changing his mind about whether or not he thought they were in a relationship; it didn’t seem like Sherlock, but why else would they avoid him unless they thought it would upset him? That hurt him more than anything. If they had come out and told him he would have positively applauded, and heralded Molly as some sort of hero for making such a break through with him. He wouldn’t have been so petty to have been upset, just because he and Molly went for coffee sometimes. Then again, he wouldn’t have thought his friends would be so petty as to try and hide it from him. If he was honest, he thought deep down that part of the reason he was so anxious to persuade himself that was all it was came from the fact the alternative was far worse- that there was some danger, some trouble, and they didn’t trust him enough to let him help. He just wished Molly had told him she was seeing Sherlock. She knew how worried he had been over the years. Why hadn’t she said anything?

John didn’t actually ask her any of these questions, and Molly offered no answers. It was simply a question of pride. If they didn’t want him to know, then he wasn’t going to go begging for scraps of information. Yet he did want to know, and badly; but when the answers finally came, the knowledge was terrible.

September had moved into October, with no noticeable change in the weather or the war. It was still unseasonably cold and bitter, the nights drawing in darker and darker, promising a vicious winter. The war continued sending victims to the hospital, sometimes so few for days that you could almost forget, but then the Dark Mark would appear again and John would have dozens of patients all at once, and bodies were brought in from all over to be examined for the government records in the St Mungo’s morgue. It was a depressing state of affairs that Molly was probably even busier than John was. Even if they had wanted to go, there wouldn’t have been time to go for coffee. There was barely even time to talk. Perhaps it was for the best.

Still, it was so easy to forget sometimes. It had been a busy night in A&E, but now, when John only had an hour left on shift, it was finally going quiet. He thought briefly about finding Molly and going for a coffee, but then he remembered everything else that was going on and, massaging his temples, thought he still wasn’t ready to deal with that. It was just then, of course, that Sherlock himself tumbled over one of the grates and collapsed in the middle of the floor. John had been desperate to see him- had been expecting to see him, even; he had known it could only be a matter of time- but he wouldn’t have wished to see him like this. Sherlock had always been unhealthily thin and pale, but now these things seemed more severe. He could barely breathe, and as John untied his scarf to help him, he could see the evidence of heavy bruising, old, half healed, over the neck of his shirt. His eyes were so confused that at first John thought he didn’t recognise him, but then the sarcastic comments started. Even at death’s door, Sherlock was capable of being rude. But then came the plea that would rattle John so much:

“I don’t want you involved, John. Please.”

                John felt the goosebumps break out on his neck, a sure sign that his magic was sensing danger, sensing something was badly wrong. He shook his head, trying to dispel them and his darker fears, changing the subject.  

                “How did you even get here? You can barely walk. Are you here alone?”

                “I’m always alone.”

                John didn’t know how Sherlock could say that. Kneeling here by his friend’s side, the years of no contact and the recent hurts seemed irrelevant, like they had never even happened. If Sherlock was alone now, he had chosen it.

                “Not any more, you’re not.” John said grimly, waving his wand at a stretcher and easing his friend onto it. Sherlock groaned when they moved him and finally slipped into unconsciousness; and if he hadn’t been so pale, John might have thought he was doing it to avoid being questioned. “I’m here whether you like it or not.”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

                Naturally John did not go home once he was off duty.  Once they had done what they could for Sherlock, he had been moved up to the critical care ward. His case was an unusual one; none of them could find any evidence of what curse had been used against him, yet his breathing had been laboured and his pulse weak, and nothing they could do seemed to be making any difference in bringing him back from the brink of death. Perhaps the healers up on critical care could do better, but that didn’t stop John from worrying himself stupid. He just didn’t want to be there too late. He wasn’t going to let Sherlock die. Not until he found out what was going on. The moment he finished work, he dashed upstairs, not bothering to wait for the lift, sprinting up the two floors to the emergency department. He had just reached the doors to the ward when Molly stumbled out of the lift behind him, looking flustered.

                “John!” She said. “Is it true?! Is he okay?! Is it him?!”

                “If you mean Sherlock, he came in earlier.” John said. “He’s hurt pretty badly. I couldn’t tell why.”

                “No!” Molly shook her head. “No, no. There’s been too many. Too many.” To John’s surprise, she burst into tears. Alarmed, he hugged her tightly.

                “I’m sorry.” She sobbed. “I’m sorry. I have to grow up and get on with the job. I can’t break down like this. But people from school, John, people I _knew_ , they turn up on the slab and there’s no warning, you just pull back the sheet and recognise their faces. There was one today, she was a few years above us, I never spoke to her, but I couldn’t even remember her name, John, I knew her and I had to examine her body, but I had to look in the file for her name.” She heaved a few heavy breaths, trying to calm herself, but then broke down again. “Oh, John, the muggles, John. It’s supposed to be secret, but when there are muggles that are killed we have to… we have to… we have to change the bodies, John. Make sure there’s some other cause of death for the muggle doctors to find, tidy up the magical wounds. If we can’t then… then we can never return the body. The police keep looking for them and the families don’t know…”

                She broke down completely, unable to speak. John stroked her hair, not knowing what to say. Such work was appalling and made anger curl in his gut; wasn’t it time the muggles knew exactly what they were dealing with? Right now, however, his biggest concern was Molly. True, she was easily frazzled and often got stressed, and he had noticed the strain this war was putting on her before now, but this was too much. No wonder she had gone off sick. Something, probably Sherlock’s showing up today, had just tipped her over the edge of what she could cope with. Still, she was strong and after a moment or two pulled herself together and straightened up, wiping her eyes resolutely.

                “Sorry, John, I’m sorry. I’m just being silly.” She sniffled, wiping her eyes on the edge of her robes. “It’s just… if Sherlock was to show up in the morgue…” She threatened to break down again and swallowed, hard. “Do you think they’ll let us see him?”

                “We’re seeing him either way.” John said, taking hold of her hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “Just… be ready. He looks pretty bad.”

                Molly nodded and took a deep breath, but followed him into the ward without saying anything else.

                The Critical Care Ward was John’s least favourite place in the hospital. The morgue he always found quite surprisingly to have an atmosphere of dignity and peace. The Critical Care ward was the other side of that, and always thoroughly spooked John. It was reserved for patients on the brink of death, usually who no amount of magic could manage to fix. In there periods of eerie stillness were punctuated by the occasional moan or scream. It didn’t matter how many times John reminded himself that the most skilled and experienced healers worked up there, or that the ward only had a 4% mortality rate, which was phenomenal considering the severity of the cases; whenever he went there it felt like he was in the land of the dying. And now Sherlock was in there, amongst the beds.

                His eyes were open when they found him, but John couldn’t have described him as awake. His gaze slowly moved to them, then slid back to the ceiling, blank and unknowing. He didn’t respond however much they called him, and when John checked his pulse it was faint and irregular. There were no signs of injury on him, no symptoms of any curses John knew. His friend was simply dying, as if of old age, but he could only have turned twenty-four a few weeks before. It was as if he had given up on life, but this was Sherlock, to whom giving up had always been unthinkable. Someone had done this to him, John was sure of it, and he had a feeling Molly knew who, judging by the distress on her face and the way she was avoiding his look. Finally, their eyes met, and she broke.

                “It’s my fault.” She said, in quiet anguish. “He was trying to protect me, I’m sure of it.”

                “Protect you from what?” John asked. “From who?”

                “I just don’t understand.” Molly continued, in the same death bed whisper. “I never thought… I always believed… Oh, how could he have done this?! They’re supposed to be friends!”

                No further explanation was needed. Sherlock had only ever had three friends, and two of them were in the room. The entire awful truth abruptly unravelled in front of him. “Jim.” John said. “Jim did this?”

                John’s voice couldn’t have been much more than a whisper but somehow the word got through to Sherlock, electrifying him. John felt a skeletal hand gripping his wrist so tightly it would leave a bruise, and looked down to see Sherlock’s eyes enflamed with rage, flushed with anger and fever.

                “Jim.” He hissed, the effort taking his breath away. John tried to pull free but Sherlock’s death grip tightened, hatred in his eyes without recognition. “Jim Moriarty.”

                “No, John. John Watson. Jim isn’t here, Sherlock. It’s okay, he’s not here. It’s John.”

                “…John?”

                “That’s right.” John said, in the calmest voice he could manage given the storm of emotion inside of him. Sherlock’s grip slackened and John pulled free, glad his wrist hadn’t broken. Sherlock sagged back into his pillows, his forehead lined with sweat from the exertion, looking at John in a daze. “Just rest, Sherlock.” John said. “Please.”

                “You can’t let him get her, John.” Sherlock said, in a far away voice. “You mustn’t let him do it.”

                Sherlock’s rasping voice trailed off and the young man fell back into unconsciousness, but John looked at Molly with new determination. In spite of their best efforts, he was involved now, and whatever was going on with his friends, he was going to be in it too.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

                They were back at Molly’s. With Sherlock asleep, Molly had finally agreed to tell John everything she could; though she cautioned him it wasn’t much, and made him wait until they were back at her house, not even letting him ask any questions. These were dangerous times.

                “Alright.” She said, letting them into the hall and closing the front door behind them. “We can talk now. Sherlock put an anti-eavesdropping charm around this whole house, one of Mycroft’s old favourites, apparently. No-one can hear anything that’s said unless it’s specifically directed at them. It’s made it terribly difficult to listen to the radio, I can tell you.”

                She was babbling. Nervous. Maybe even scared. John folded his arms, trying to show there would be no more distractions.

                “Molly.” He said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

                “Come into the lounge.” She said, hesitantly. John did as he was told. As soon as he stepped into the room, the problem became immediately clear.

                “We’ve tried and tried.” Molly said, apologetically. “But nothing we can do will get it off.”

                One of the walls was completely taken up with blood-red writing, that was somehow still wet and dripping, though it had been almost a week since John’s visit, when he first noticed something was wrong. It was a simple enough threat:

                _Stay away from the Mudblood; squibs & blood traitors will be next!_

“It appeared one day.” Molly said. “Just out of nowhere, it was here when I got home. I was so scared I didn’t know what to do, but Sherlock was waiting for me too and, oh, John, I _swear_ I hadn’t seen him before that.”

                “What was he doing here?” John asked. “Does he know what this is?” He looked again at the message in blood. “Oh, no. _The_ Mudblood. That’s me, isn’t it? Oh no. Molly, I’m sorry, I’ve made you a target.”

                “John, don’t be silly, it’s not your fault.”

                “Is that why Sherlock didn’t want me involved?” John asked. “He thought I’d put you in more danger?”

                “No, John, no, that’s not it at all!”

                “Then what?!”

                “He thought you wouldn’t forgive him!”

                “Forgive him for what?!”

                “He’s planning on killing Jim!”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

“Be a good man”, Sherlock had told him all those years before, “Because this is going to be a dirty fight, John, and there won’t be enough good men left at the end of it”. The words kept rattling around in John’s head as he wondered, again and again, what the words meant. Sherlock must have known all along, known even then, what things would come to with Jim. He had known how difficult John would find it to accept, and had kept him out of it, just like always, so that John wouldn’t have to get his hands dirty. It was Sherlock’s old logic, that if John was moral, it would somehow keep the universe in balance when he himself wasn’t. Sherlock hadn’t been trying to keep John out of it because he didn’t trust him, but because he had wanted to spare him. John felt a kind of sickened gratitude, admitting secretly to himself that now he knew what was going on, he wished he didn’t.

It had taken Molly only a little time to explain everything she knew. Sherlock had simply been waiting for her when she had gotten home from work, scaring her half to death and had gotten to work on the message. At first he had been reluctant to tell her anything, but finally, he broke the news to her that he believed it was Jim who had left the message. Molly hadn’t believed him, hadn’t wanted to believe him, but as usual, he told her things about the semi colon and the ampersand until she couldn’t disagree anymore. Sherlock had apparently been chasing after Jim for some time, and had known him to be in the area, and so had been keeping a close eye on Molly and John both, although unseen. Apparently he had expected John to be the initial target, as John was after all the properly muggle-born one, but perhaps Moriarty had anticipated him, or perhaps he simply hated Molly more; his love twisted into hatred. It was then that Sherlock had insisted on staying with her for a few days, in case Moriarty made his move, but after nearly being caught by John, he had escaped and that was the last she had seen of him until he turned up at the hospital. She had no way of knowing what had happened, knowing only what John did; that the end result of his investigation now had Sherlock lying on the edge of life, ready to topple over any second.

It was too much for John to take in. The idea of Sherlock looking for Jim, intending to kill him, repulsed John. It was simply inconceivable to him, and a large part of him did not want to let Sherlock do it. Yet, the problem of Jim remained. Molly’s feelings had been very similar to John’s on the subject, but apparently Sherlock had pointed out that Jim would never go quietly if captured. This was admittedly true, and that he had to be stopped was also true. Besides which, however much it pained John to admit it, looking at Sherlock now, Moriarty hadn’t given much consideration to their old friendship when he was trying to kill him. Trying, and so nearly succeeding, that John felt the anger boiling inside him; and when he thought that Molly was next, John felt about ready to kill Moriarty himself. When it came down to it, he didn’t know what he would do, except that his priority would be to protect Sherlock and Molly; whatever the cost. Sherlock had been wrong. It seemed like none of them would be coming out of this as good men.

For the next three days, there wasn’t much either of them could do except continue going to work. John took the threat seriously and finally persuaded Molly to come and stay with him at his flat; but at night, he was kept awake in the knowledge that she probably wasn’t any safer here than she had been elsewhere, maybe even less so. They spent as much time as they could at Sherlock’s bedside, but he was so weak that he was rarely awake and aware for long, his confusion, whether real or feigned, preventing him from telling them anything. Even so, he was getting stronger and the healers were pleased with his progress. On the fourth morning since his arrival in hospital, Sherlock was declared to be out of immediate danger and moved down to one of the general wards, which, John knew, meant it was only a matter of time before Sherlock would be clamouring to be discharged, whether he was recovered or not. It was also time he gave them some proper answers.

Sherlock was asleep when John arrived, but he didn’t mind, simply sitting down in the chair next to the bed and unfolding the Daily Prophet that he had borrowed from the nurse’s station. In a way it was better like this; although it was John’s day off, Molly wasn’t due to finish for another hour or two, and Sherlock being Sherlock wouldn’t want to explain twice. After a few minutes, however, his eyes opened and he looked at John.

“Oh.” He said.

John folded up the newspaper and crossed his arms, waiting.

“I’d almost forgotten your waiting-for-an-answer look.” Sherlock frowned. “But I suppose something so irritating can never be completely erased from memory.”

“Yes, well, it’s not as irritating as the surely-you-must-understand look you used to give us.” John sighed, letting his arms fall into his lap. “…it’s good to see you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“Molly’s told me what she can.” John continued, aware that as a first proper conversation this one was rather deficient; but Sherlock had never been one for small talk and was likely to fall asleep again at any moment. His eyes were already fluttering shut. John tapped his arm, keeping him awake. “Sherlock, you need to tell me what’s going on. If Moriarty is after Molly, then I need to know everything or I won’t be able to look after her.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“For goodness’ sake, Sherlock! You’re almost dead! Isn’t it time to swallow your damn pride and let us help?! We’re a team, Sherlock, rely on us for once!”

Something in his words seem to get through to his friend at last, who sighed and without looking at him said, “Go in my coat. There’s a bottle in there.”

His belongings were stashed in the locker beside his bed, and John pulled the coat out, rifling through the pockets. Finding the bottle proved to be easier said than done, as it seemed Sherlock had used his famous enlargement charm on these pockets as well, and seemed to be carrying a lot of his worldly goods with him- although, thankfully, Agatha appeared to have been retired. Eventually, after pulling out enough books to stock a small library (and many of them, John noticed, seemed to be some more of Sherlock’s extremely long term loans from Hogwarts), some black leather gloves and various pieces of magical and scientific paraphernalia John found a small vial packed with some kind of bright blue powder. It wasn’t exactly a bottle, but it was the closest he could find.

“Is this what you meant?” He asked, showing it to Sherlock. His friend’s eyes were closed again. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock woke up, startled. “Yes, that’s it.” He said. “Empty it out. The powder isn’t important.”

John did so, emptying it into the bin, trying not to feel guilty. He felt like a bully for pressuring Sherlock when he clearly wasn’t well, but Moriarty could strike at any time. The more time that passed from the threat on Molly being made left John feeling less, not more, secure. Anyway, Sherlock was improving by strides. Another day or two of rest and he would be back to his old self. This couldn’t wait any longer; though John couldn’t see what an empty bottle had to do with anything. Still, he had learnt with Sherlock that sometimes it was best to simply do, and ask questions later. He allowed himself a small smile. It had been five years since he had last spoken to Sherlock, and yet already he had fallen straight back into old habits.

“Here.” John gave it to him.

“My wand.”

Sometimes, of course, it was necessary to ask first. “Why? What are you going to do?”

“My wand, John!”  Naturally, Sherlock wouldn’t answer unless he felt like it. John gave in and retrieved Sherlock’s wand from his cavernous pockets. To his surprise, Sherlock pressed it silently into the middle of his forehead, drawing it away a second later with a silky silver thread, slightly liquid, hanging from it. Sherlock dropped it into the bottle and went to take another, doing it again and again until the vial was nearly full. By that point, John had worked out what it was. Sherlock was siphoning off his memories, for use with a pensieve. John had heard of them, of course, but he had never actually seen one. He was a little surprised Sherlock would have one, sure that his friend was the kind who would prefer to keep his memories privately in his head; unless of course Sherlock didn’t have one and was just expecting John to track one down. With this in mind, John commented rather reluctantly.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just tell me?”

Sherlock pressed the vial into his hand. “There’s a pensieve at the old house. The Holmes house. Twitchy will show you.” He didn’t let go of the vial, perhaps doubting whether he should let these memories go out into the wide world. John looked at his face, and to his surprise, Sherlock seemed almost frightened. The look quickly disappeared however, and the vial was released. John put it into his pocket.

“Go now.” Sherlock said. “Twitchy will be at Baker Street. Tell her I sent you.”

“Right.” John said, getting up. “I’ll see you later.”

“John.” Sherlock said just before John left the room, a note of urgency in his voice. “…I only did what I had to.”

John wasn’t sure what to say, so simply nodded; but privately he wondered if that was true, why Sherlock sounded like he was apologising. The bottle of memories suddenly felt heavier inside his jacket.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

                It had been a long time since he had been in Chelsea. When he tried to pin down a date, John realised slightly guiltily it must have been Harriet’s birthday party the last time he had been home.  Nor did he have a phone in his flat, living as he did in a housing block that St Mungos rented out to their staff and their families. He did occasionally call home using the phone at Molly’s house but not, he knew, as often as his mother would have liked. He was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of homesickness. Ever since Sherlock had handed over his memories in the hospital, John had been struggling against a sense of finality and ending, the feeling that if he looked at them, things were going to change, and change for the worse. His magical sense was in overdrive, a sense of vertigo as he stood at the edge of the precipice of something unknown. Before he jumped into it, he wanted to go home. He didn’t know when he would next be able to.

                He sent Twitchy on ahead to the Holmes household to find the promised pensieve, which she seemed quite happy about, and went to his own childhood home. His mother was startled to see him, but glad, hugging him tightly before the reprimands about not calling or visiting enough began. John followed her into the lounge, only half listening. The house had been redecorated since he had last been there. Gone were the beiges and browns he had helped her put up when he was thirteen, replaced with patterned wallpaper, much brighter and more cheerful. He liked it. It seemed more homely; but it wasn’t his home.  It would make it easier to leave. Still, he was glad his mother and sister had somewhere nice to come back to.

                “Where is Harry?” he asked, accepting a cup of tea and sinking into the settee.

                “School, of course.” She answered. “Really, John, I don’t know where your head is today.” Her lips were pursed, a sure sign of stress. John wondered if he’d offended her, being so out of touch with everything.

                “Oh, right, sorry.” Silence fell for a minute. John knew she was waiting for him to tell her what was wrong, but he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t even know where to start, or quite how to explain the dread he was feeling. He looked at the pictures over the mantelpiece. The one of his father that had stood there for years had been taken down soon after his mother’s remarriage, moved to the privacy of her dressing table upstairs, and replaced with one of her wedding to Dean and a school picture of each of her two children. John’s wasn’t even a genuine one; he hadn’t been at any school in England long enough to have one taken so his mother had made him, on the last day of Year Six, go with her to a photographer and have one done. It had been a few weeks before he had gotten his Hogwarts letter and a few months after his father had died, before his mother had been working. The photograph and photographer had cost a small fortune, money they hadn’t really had, and you could see it on John’s face; the smile that wasn’t meeting his eyes and the bags underneath them. He looked much older than eleven, and yet, so much younger. John hated the picture, wondering why his mother would even have it out. He supposed it was just to match Harriet’s, one of the few pictures she had of his childhood.  He decided that the next time he came he would bring his picture Molly had given him in the fourth year, of him and his friends in Hogsmeade, one of the few group shots they had ever taken. Sherlock and Jim had always complained that Molly had taken it on an old muggle camera of her father’s, so it didn’t move, but John preferred it that way. At least on that picture, he was smiling.

                Harriet was positively grinning on her picture, her first school picture, and she, just turned five, sitting up straight, her cardigan buttoned more neatly over her pinafore than it ever would be for more than five minutes in reality. She was seven now, and must have started in Year 3 a few weeks before. John remembered she had been excited about going over to the Junior School, with its separate buildings and compounds, but as usual, her real obsession was with Hogwarts. She understood well enough that she had to hide her talents, but resented it, and more than once John’s mother had been gossiping with the other mothers and heard tell of some strange unexplainable misdemeanour and Harriet had gotten a scolding when they got home. John thought rather guiltily that he really ought to see her more often, keep an eye on her, as the only one in her family who probably really understood.  

                “How is she?” He asked.

                “She misses you.” His mother answered, reading his mind again. “…She’s still as headstrong as ever, too. It’ll be a relief when she can go to Hogwarts, to be honest, I’m tired of my plates being cracked every time she has a tantrum. She says she can’t control it, but I’m not convinced for a second.”

                John laughed, reminded irresistibly of someone else he knew. He should persuade Sherlock to come round with him one day. He knew his mother would like to see him, and although Harry couldn’t remember him, he was sure she would like him too. Before that, however, he would come and see Harry himself. He wanted to talk to her, give her some idea what was happening in the world she was coming into, just in case it wasn’t over by then. Harriet would be going into Hogwarts in 1979. John was determined to make sure it was safe for her again by then. He would do whatever he could. “I want to see her, too.” He said.

                “Why don’t you come and collect her with me later?” His mom suggested. “You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you? Please, John. I want you to stay. Please.”

                For once, John desperately wanted to say yes, but he couldn’t. Sherlock’s memories were still weighing in his pocket, reminding him of his responsibilities. “I can’t, I can’t stay long.” He replied. “I’ll come round at the weekend. Sunday lunch.”

                “Alright.” His mom answered. “You make sure you do, John.”

                “I will. I’ll be here.”

                They chatted idly for a little while, catching up, although John found there was little he dared tell her. When he was a kid, he would have told her everything. Now, he just didn’t want her to worry about something she could do nothing about. She was starting to look old now, grey just visible at the roots of her fashionable perm. She was in her forties now, too old, John still thought privately, to have such a young daughter. Too old to be worrying about dark wizards banging on her door or what Jim may or may not have done to Sherlock.  It was time he found out what exactly.

                “I’ll see you on Sunday, mom.” He said, hugging her.

                “Don’t do that, John.”

                John made himself smile. “Do what?”

                “Look at me like you’re never going to see me again. Your father used to do that too.”

                “I’m not!” His laughter sounded false. His mom hugged him again.

                “I’ll see you on Sunday.” She said, fiercely. “Half past one. Don’t you dare be late.”

                “I won’t, mom.” He pulled himself free and kissed her cheek, heading for the door. “See you then.”

                “John.” She said, desperately. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If something was really wrong?”

                He smiled, knowing she would see right through him. “Of course, mom. But I’m fine, alright? I’m fine, and I’ll see you on Sunday. Goodbye.”

                “Goodbye, John. Take care.”

                She stood at the doorway as he left, watching him all the way down the garden path and along the street.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

 There was one last call he wanted to make as he walked up the hill, just for old time’s sake. The muggle-repelling charms hardly bothered him now, almost unnoticeable. Perhaps it was just that the spells were unravelling with age, but it seemed unlikely that even Sherlock would leave the house unprotected from the curious muggles of Chelsea. More likely the spells had accepted him as a wizard and were leaving him alone. John was glad of it. He had enough on his mind without the house trying to persuade him to leave. Twitchy had left the iron gates unlocked for him and he slipped into the grounds, turning away from the house and towards the Holmes family crypt.

John well remembered how unsentimental Mycroft had been, but he had been kind to John for years, and, what’s more, died for the cause John was just now embarking on. It only seemed right that he should stop and pay his respects.

The crypt was showing evidence of the house’s neglect, the grass before it rather too long, and some moss beginning to grow on the stone walls. When this was over, John thought, he’d get Sherlock and Twitchy over here and help them clear up a bit. The gates to the crypt were locked, of course, with a heavy and ornate black padlock that fitted exactly into the design of the gates. John walked round to the back wall of the stone entrance and found what he was looking for; the wall was entirely made up of large panels with the names and dates of Sherlock’s ancestors written magically onto them.  Some of them were so old that the original magic was wearing out and the words wobbled patchily in and out of focus. The first few were lost entirely, the first that was legible dating from 1492. It seemed the family name was Yoames back then. More interestingly, it seemed their given names were passed down too. By John’s count, Sherlock must have been Sherlock Holmes the twelfth or thirteenth at least, and Mycroft the ninth or tenth.  Still, it wasn’t etymology he was interested in.  John moved along the wall to the most recent, finding to his surprise the last entry was _Magdalene Fiamatta Holmes (nee. Delacour), 3 rd December 1926-29th September 1974_. Below this were the words _Interred off the premises_. John frowned slightly, not sure what his feelings were. It seemed the magic had added Sherlock’s mother’s name automatically, but clearly Sherlock had nothing to do with it. It was entirely possible he didn’t even know his mother had passed away. If he did, he probably didn’t care. John realised he just felt slightly relieved. It was a sad state of affairs, however, that the familial relationships had been so poisonous. He felt again how much of a loss Mycroft had been, if only as the only actual family Sherlock ever associated with, even if that association was at times stormy. Mycroft’s name was listed immediately above his mother’s.

_Mycroft Thaddeus Holmes I X, 8 th May 1945-24thMarch 1970_

Somehow it didn’t seem like the same person he remembered at all, even though the pompous titles suited Mycroft perfectly. He didn’t like the idea that either of the brothers had inherited names, because the two of them were unprecedented. He was confident there had never been a Holmes like either of them before, and probably never would be again; if only because Sherlock was unlikely to ever have children. John pressed his hand to the engraving, working his fingertips into the grooves. He could feel a hundred enchantments pulsing in the age old stone, in the words themselves. This thing would last throughout the millennia. He didn’t feel that he had to say anything, simply nodding his greetings and respects, removing his hand, very aware that Mycroft would probably catch up with him in the afterlife if he didn’t get Sherlock out of this war alive. His determination renewed, John turned to the house and found Twitchy in Mycroft’s study, where she had laid the pensieve on the desk. John emptied the memories into the stone bowl.

“Do you know why Master Sherlock’s gave you his memories?” Twitchy asked, her ears quivering with anxiety.

“I think he just wants to show me something, don’t worry.”

“You said Master Sherlock was in hospital.” Twitchy said, her large ears almost flapping now. “He didn’t give you his memories because he thought he was dying, did he, sir?”

“No, Twitchy. He’s okay. He just needs rest. He’ll be back at Baker Street with you soon.”

Twitchy drooped, her large eyes going watery. “I don’t know about that sir. Twitchy hardly sees him, sir. Twitchy gets very worried.”

“I tell you what,” John smiled down at the elderly elf who had practically raised Sherlock herself. “I’m going back to the hospital after this. Why don’t you come with me? You can give him a good scolding.”

“Twitchy would like that, sir.”

“Good.” John said, turning back to the stone basin. His smile slipped as he looked down at the churning fog hanging over it. He had read all about the pensieve when he was training of course, as it could be invaluable when a patient couldn’t tell you what had happened; but his knowledge was mostly to do with gaining consent for harvesting memories and the correct storage and disposal of them afterwards. He had once been made to write an entire essay discussing the application of confidentiality laws to _extra-mentum_ memories. Theory, however, was very different to the real thing. He wondered if he should hold his breath, not overly keen on the idea of sticking his face into the strange half-liquid substance before him. But what else could he do? There was something here Sherlock wanted to show him, something important, and something terrible.

John took a deep breath, held it, and plunged into the pensieve.

 


	12. Chapter Five Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Hogwarts. Part 2/3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part was a lot of fun to write; to put John inside Sherlock’s memories and experience things from Sherlock’s point of view. It does need a warning of silliness, I guess, in spite of all the seriousness… oh Sherlock, oh Jim, you broke my heart… XD Haha. Also, it was pretty hard to write a conversation with the Sorting Hat that could, theoretically, have taken seventeen minutes. If the hat was really that harsh on people, I think the school would have to give it a good talking to, haha. This is the penultimate part!

 

Chapter Five Part 2/3

 

                A dizzying, gut wrenching moment later, John found himself standing in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, the breath knocked noisily out of him.  He blinked in the relative brightness, thinking it was just going from the gloominess of Mycroft’s old study to the glass-ceilinged hall, but after a few blinks, he realised it was more than that. These were Sherlock’s memories, and this was how he saw the world. John looked around him, completely disorientated. The memories were more detailed than the real world, than John’s real world, had ever been. It was like having the eyes of a hawk. He could see _everything_. How had he never noticed that the four house tables were made of four different kinds of wood, or that the floor tiles had the smallest specks of silver in them? Every detail jumped out at him in stark relief, like he could see the texture of the universe. It was dizzying, confusing, exhausting- was this how Sherlock saw the world _all the time_? No wonder he was slightly eccentric.

For a moment John marvelled, trying to re-orientate himself, before he finally took a few steadying breaths and decided to work out when he was. It didn’t take much. He was standing in the queue to be sorted, though of course none of the first years could see him. He was standing directly behind Sherlock. This was the weird double barrelled nature of extracted memories that he had heard about; the viewer was external from the person having the memories. No-one could really adequately explain why, though there were plenty of theories. Clearly, however, no-one had ever been inside the head of Sherlock Holmes, or there would have been plenty of debate about why the perception of the viewer mimicked the perception of the experiencer. His mind couldn’t focus on theory for long, however, he was too busy moving out of the row to have a better look at the eleven year old Sherlock in front of him.

He was tiny. John had forgotten all about it, but hadn’t Sherlock been shorter than him when they had first met? John couldn’t resist glancing back along the row and yes, there he was, a little boy craning to look over the heads of the others, trying to see what was going on at the front. Small, but definitely with a good centimetre or two on Sherlock.  Satisfied, John looked back at his subject, determined not to miss anything. Sherlock stood in line, glaring fiercely at everything, unruly hair falling into his eyes, his robes just a little too long at the sleeve. And then the writing began to appear.

John looked up, startled. Words were starting to appear above the heads of the children in front of Sherlock in the queue, hanging in the air. At first John thought, foolishly, that he didn’t remember this happening and wondered what was going on; and then he realised, this wasn’t a spell, this was what Sherlock was seeing. Now he had gotten over his surprise and calmed enough to read the words, he could see they were cycling through observations and deductions.

 _Overconfident_. One said, the word quickly receiving an amendment: _Falsely overconfident._  John had forgotten how unkind Sherlock had been back then. The words were suddenly scrubbed out and replaced with _Arrogant_ , which was then rubbed out again and replaced with _Slytherin_ , which shook itself and turned green, hanging there, pulsing, as Sherlock turned his attention to the next child, where the same thing happened again and again, working down the queue, some of the words so fast John couldn’t even read them, before settling on one of the four houses. John looked at the students. Little Sherlock was right about almost all of them, mistaking perhaps one in five. John wasn’t particularly surprised, simply thinking wryly to himself that Sherlock had improved; at the beginning of the final year he had announced every single house before the hat did, and been right about them all. Probably he had been practicing every year since he had made the mistakes the first time. Still, it was interesting to watch little Sherlock’s reaction as his peers were sorted. If his deductions were correct, his little face would light up in triumph; and if they were not, it would fall into a scowl. John couldn’t help but laugh. He wondered if Sherlock would have shown him this memory had he realised how cute he was in it.

That said, John still hadn’t worked out why Sherlock had chosen to give him this memory at all. If it was just to remind John of how clever he was, there were plenty of instances that would have been better. Nor was he hurrying through, John was watching the Sorting again from the beginning in real time. Maybe something had happened afterwards, something with Jim. John looked down the row for him. There he was, not looking in the least nervous, trying to make whispered conversation with Moran, who, true to form, wasn’t really responding but couldn’t help but smile at something funny Jim was saying. For a moment it sent a real sense of loneliness and grief through John. So far Jim’s actions had just made him angry, he had been able to avoid thinking about the reality that he had lost a friend in one of the worst ways he could imagine, with that friend turning against them. He suddenly wondered if perhaps he was wrong, perhaps Jim had somehow been against them from the start, if Sherlock had seen something here- but it seemed not, as Sherlock stepped up onto the platform to have his own turn under the Sorting Hat.

 Sherlock stared defiantly out from underneath the brim that was too big for him, looking bored and unconcerned. John had always been impressed with Sherlock for keeping his eyes open the whole time, but now he knew his friend better, he could see a studied air to the nonchalance, something affected about it. Besides which, all the white writing had disappeared as Sherlock was too distracted even to deduce, and no wonder. He had already been sitting under the hat for several minutes with nothing happening, he had a way to go to reach the seventeen minute mark that hadn’t been matched since.

Suddenly, a fold in the hat seemed to tear open into a mouth, and the hat said:

“Aren’t you going to talk to me, boy?”

John looked up, startled, once again having to remind himself that he was inside Sherlock’s memories, he was seeing what Sherlock saw. John couldn’t help but watch with interest; he had heard that the hat said something to most people, but he himself hadn’t got so much as a hello. Neither had Sherlock ever told him what the hat had said to him, so this should be interesting. His magical sense was stirring in him as he realised instinctively that it was this conversation which Sherlock wanted him to hear.

“I thought it would be politer to let you speak first.” Sherlock said, in a tone that was anything but polite. The hat chuckled.

“Looking down your nose at me, are you? How very like your brother. Now, he was most insistent that he be put in Slytherin.”

“Slytherin is the traditional house of our family.”

The hat chuckled again. “I don’t need you to tell me that, boy. I’ve had more Holmes heads under my brim than I care to remember; there was one of your ancestors here the very first year. Still, for all the Holmes I’ve seen, your brother was the cleverest.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about Mycroft.” Sherlock said, sulkily. John was amazed he didn’t start insisting that he was smarter than his brother; but then, he had always suspected that, inwardly at least, Sherlock had a begrudging admiration, even affection, for his brother. Not that either of these things had ever extended to treating him with respect, not in Mycroft’s lifetime.

“No, Master Holmes, I know you didn’t.” The hat didn’t sound like he cared. “But it is remarkably interesting…”

“What is?” As an adult, Sherlock would never have been drawn in by such transparent goading, not unless he wanted to be. As a child, there was no way he could resist it.

“There have been many Holmes heads under this hat, and all of them of the same mould. All except your brother, now he was very nearly something new. He could have been a Ravenclaw, you know, for he is extremely intelligent, not to mention direct. The boy has all the cunning and the subtlety of the school post; he achieves his goals with wit, not guile. Yet he asked to be in Slytherin, purely because he felt it would get him further in his career. That ambition of his settled the matter, as he knew it would.”

“And so you find it interesting that his brother would rather be in Ravenclaw.”

“Indeed.” The hat chuckled. “But there is far more of interest in your head than that, Master Holmes.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have decided I will put you into Ravenclaw, haven’t you?”

“Yes. It’s the obvious choice.”

“Why?”

Sherlock frowned, clearly seeing no problem in telling a hat that had been doing this for centuries before he was born how to do its job; or understanding why it wouldn’t agree with him. “Because I’m clever.” He said, finally, when the hat said nothing more.

“Yes, but that’s not all you are, is it?”

Sherlock frowned again, making John wonder if he understood the question. Then he realised that wasn’t the problem. Sherlock simply didn’t know how to answer.

“Is it?” The hat prompted, after some little time of silence.

“It’s the only thing that matters.” Sherlock answered, stubbornly. The hat laughed.

“There is a lot of knowledge in your head, Master Holmes, but what concerns me is your heart.”

“You aren’t here to test my heart.” For the briefest second, a flash of worry appeared in the young boy’s eyes. “Are you?”

“Do you really think bravery or love or ambition are values people set in their minds?”

“Yes.” John couldn’t help but roll his eyes at this. Typical Sherlock, always having to have the last word.

“Then you are wrong, Master Holmes, terribly wrong. I’ve seen enough to know that in the end, nobody can truly know who they are until the time of trial. The heart is inconstant, it can be swayed and changed. It is my job to see potential.”

“My potential is obvious.” Sherlock said sullenly. “I’m smart and will probably get smarter. Put me in Ravenclaw.”

“Oh, but there is more to you than that, Master Holmes. There is boredom here, deep boredom, you’re just looking for something interesting, something fun. You’re a thrill seeker and reckless and you fear no-one. I could justifiably put you in Gryffindor.”

“With John?” Sherlock muttered seemingly to himself, considering it. Watching, John blinked in surprise, then smiled. It seemed that even Sherlock, like every child, had wanted to stick with his friends; though in truth they had barely know each other a week at this time.

“Ah yes, you’ve made a friend. Aren’t you surprised that you could? It seems, therefore, Master Holmes, that you could have other potentials you know nothing about.”

Sherlock scowled again, with the exact expression he had when he was being told off by Mycroft, but said nothing.

“You’ve never had friends before, but you have a choice. I think you could be incredibly loyal to those you choose, if you wanted to. Your heart may be hard, Master Holmes, but it will be solid bedrock once something takes root.  You already know how diligently you will work towards a goal once it engages your attention. Perhaps you would be best suited to Hufflepuff.”

“No!”

“Give me one reason why not.”

“Because if you do I will make you into bed curtains.” Sherlock growled. The hat laughed heartily.

“You will need to be much older and wiser than you are before you can do any harm to me, boy.” It said. “If you want to be in Ravenclaw, you had better think of a better answer.”

“I’m no Hufflepuff.” Sherlock said, after the briefest pause. “I don’t love. I don’t care. Almost everyone bores me.”

“ _Almost_ everyone. Last week it would have been _everyone_ , except perhaps your brother. What’s to say after a year or two in Hufflepuff it wouldn’t be _no-one_?”

“Because I would still be better than them.”

John rolled his eyes. Whatever the hat meant about potential for change, some things would always be the same. The hat did not seem to find it as funny. “Now, there is the arrogance of the Holmes’ family.” He said. “Confidence and ambition can be forces for evil as well as good. You got all of your brother’s cunning along with yours and more besides, Master Holmes, they snapped the mould when they made you. Your arrogance, your independence, your quick thinking… surely you should naturally fall to Slytherin.”

“I’m too smart for Slytherin!”

“Very well.” The hat said, gravely. “But a word of warning to you, Master Holmes. It is rare that I come across a heart as yet unformed, untouched as yours. Your freedom is full of potential, your road is not yet chosen. There is a dark streak in your nature, Master Holmes, you could as easily fall to the bad as the good. So be on your guard, choose your friends with care and keep a careful watch on the colour of your heart.”

Sherlock said nothing, but the hat was crying out ‘Ravenclaw’ at last as the memory was fading to black, and John knew, would have known even if all his magical instinct hadn’t been telling him, that that moment, that one suggestion, had been what Sherlock had wanted him to hear.

_There is a dark streak in your nature, Master Holmes, you could as easily fall to the bad as the good…_

Perhaps this was Sherlock’s way of trying to make him understand that he had, after all this time, well and truly fallen to the bad. John felt his stomach churn with an unusual amount of nerves as he wondered just what Sherlock had done and what it would mean for them all.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

“Sherlock.”

He had expected, with the conclusion of the first memory, to be returned to the real world, but it seemed Sherlock had a few more things he wanted John to see. For a second, however, the illusion of reality continued. The sharpness, the clarity had dipped and returned to normal. The white writing had disappeared and the world was dull again. But John found he was standing in the Ravenclaw common room, looking at teenage versions of Sherlock and Jim, which meant this had to be a memory. It wasn’t hard to locate when he was either, there could only be one time when Sherlock’s perception was dulled. Jim looked almost exactly as John had remembered him looking the last time he had seen him, not quite a child yet not quite an adult, wearing a Slytherin green tie and the sleeves of his school robe folded carefully above his elbows as he leaned forward, pushing his weight into his knees. Sherlock, too, looked almost as he had at the end of school, and was sitting in a high-backed arm chair, curled up, asleep. There was only one time this could be, John could see it in the dullness of their surroundings, in Sherlock’s  death-like sleep, in the fear in Jim’s eyes, even the simple fact that they were there, in the Ravenclaw common room. This must be when Mycroft died, when for a little time Sherlock had stopped noticing anything and simply slept. John remembered those days so vividly he thought he could even take a guess at the exact occasion. If he was right, this was the day after Sherlock had received the news, just before he and John got the train home, when John had gone down to tell Hagrid they would need a few more minutes and Molly had gone up to Sherlock’s bedroom to pack him a few necessities, something Sherlock himself hadn’t even considered.

“Sherlock.” Jim said again, frowning. He still looked nervous, anxious. “Sherlock, wake up!” He shook Sherlock roughly by the shoulders. Angry, John stepped forward before recalling that he couldn’t stop this. Yet, if he had seen it then, he would most assuredly have told Jim off for such rough treatment of their friend when Sherlock barely even knew where he was.

Sherlock woke up and looked at Jim. The white writing appeared again, but nowhere near as bold and clear as before. It was slower coming, as if it was leaking out drop by drop from Sherlock’s saturated, distracted mind, and flickered irresolutely.

 _Worried_ , it said, as Sherlock took in Jim’s expression. He glanced around the room. _No John/Molly_. Sherlock frowned slightly, and a second later, his own words appeared, words John remembered him saying to Jim only too well: “ _I know you’ve been exploring it… I know you are”._ Just as before, all the observations flickered out as Sherlock made his deduction.

“Forget about what I said before, Jim.” He said dully, settling back to sleep.

“No, no, Sherley!” Jim said, lurching over to his chair and hitting his face gently. “Come on, wakey wakey sweetheart. I suppose there’s no point asking how you know?”

“You know how I know.”

“That day on the beach. When I gave you all the chance.”

“Yes.”

“My meetings with Moran? You suspected when I got mad at John about it.”

“Good.”

“The Slytherins distancing themselves from the school?”

Sherlock smiled slightly, a ghost of himself. “Oh, come on, Jim, give me more credit than that.”

“What?” For a second Jim looked confused, then suddenly anger flashed in his eyes. “Agatha!”

“Didn’t you think she’d been coming to your common room rather often, particularly when you were discussing business?”

“No! It was definitely her! She had the ribbon on!”

“It did take a bit of practicing to get that on, yes.”

For a second Jim looked so furious John honestly thought he was going to punch Sherlock and never stop; but it was gone as quickly as it had come and then he laughed.

“Alright, fine, well done to you, sweetie. But seeing as you know,” he grabbed Sherlock’s arm, eager, excited. “How about helping us out?”

“With what?”

“Oh for… look at you, Sherlock. Look at yourself! All that intellect, all that genius, and it’s reduced to nothing, nothing, because of one little death! Come on, forget about your brother for five seconds and think!”

In an instant, Sherlock’s hands were around Jim’s collar. “I’m sorry,” He growled. “Did you just tell me to forget about my brother? Who do you think killed him, Jim?! Who do you think it was?! If you think for one second I am signing up with that madman then allow me to correct you!” Jim pulled away, readjusting his clothes. Sherlock looked at him in disgust. “You must have realised what kind of man he is, Jim. What he wants to do to John and people like him. You can’t tell me that’s okay by you.”

“Aww, don’t be so naive.” Jim said rolling his eyes. “Obviously that’s not what I’m about. Duh. Moran and some of the others, sure, but no, no, you’re thinking too _small_ , Sherlock! We’re smart, we could do it! Find out what he knows about becoming immortal and then do it before him and the world would be at our mercy.” He smiled, leaning forward, all charm and seduction. In that moment, John thought, he could see nothing of his old friend. Jim just looked like a devil. “I tell you what, we’ll find out what he knows, do it first, and then we’ll kill him. That’s the deal. You help me with this, and I’ll hold him down while you wreak whatever revenge you want on him for what you think his followers have done to Mycroft.”

Sherlock said nothing. He was considering it, John realised; some of the fog had cleared from Sherlock’s eyes as a purpose loomed. John’s heart started to pound as he willed, willed with all his might, that Sherlock would say no; but these events were all memory, secret memories, and everything in them had happened long before.

“He’s clever, Jim, surely.”

“Maybe. Not as clever as us.”

“No, but more powerful and more ruthless than we are.” Sherlock shook his head. “Once you’re in, Jim, he won’t let you out; and by the time you’ve done whatever you need to in order to get in, you may not want to. So think carefully, James, don’t get cocky.”

“James?” Jim wrinkled his nose. “What’s that about? Trying to sound serious, are we?”

“It works when your girlfriend does it.”

“Yes, but you aren’t my girlfriend.” Jim considered this statement. “Thank goodness.”  Sherlock blinked at him and then laughed slightly.

“Listen, mate, I really am sorry about Mycroft.” Jim said quietly. “He was a ponce but he was alright. But you’ll be okay. Back on your feet before you know it.”

Sherlock said nothing, turning away and falling asleep again, the memory turning to black. Jim’s eyes were the last thing John saw, looking heavy and pensive, burning with dark thoughts.

The next memory was no more comfortable than the one that preceded it. The time had not changed much, it seemed, although now they were in the entrance hall of the Holmes manor and Sherlock was scrabbling around in the grate, feverishly looking, John remembered, for the remains of the map Mycroft had copied, that he was convinced would be there. John heard the thud of a door somewhere in the house; it must have been him himself going down to the kitchen to look for Twitchy. Sherlock turned over some more coals before finally accepting that there was nothing to be had there and throwing his arm across them, scattering ash across the floor in his frustration. Without really seeming to know what he was doing, he swept upstairs. John followed, barely able to keep up until Sherlock came to an abrupt halt outside Mycroft’s rooms. He hesitated, staring at the door, but not going in. John’s heart filled with pity, wishing he could offer some comfort. He had forgotten how badly Mycroft’s death had hurt Sherlock at the time.

Abruptly, Sherlock turned from the door and marched away towards his own rooms. He hadn’t said a word to John about it at the time, was walking with assumed purpose now, but John could still tell that Sherlock simply hadn’t wanted to go into Mycroft’s rooms on his own. He would justify it, probably, by saying that if Mycroft had wanted something kept safe, he wouldn’t have put it in his own room, the first place people would look; or perhaps he just wanted a few moments somewhere alone and familiar. Either way, Sherlock went into his own rooms and flopped for the briefest moment on his bed, restlessly getting up again and striding into his study. John saw it before Sherlock did, turning away from where the boy was pointlessly shuffling piles of books around and noticing an envelope laid out on the desk, the piles of junk carefully pushed away from it. Sherlock’s name was written on the front of it in curling letters.

“Sherlock…” John said, and a moment later, Sherlock turned towards the desk himself almost as if he had heard, and froze at the sight of it. He picked up warily, between thumb and forefinger, then catching it up and nearly crumpling it between his hands as he stared at it. After a moment’s indecision, he tore it open.

Initially, John turned away, feeling he was intruding on a very private moment, remembering how any minute now he was going to come blundering in telling Sherlock he had found the map and Sherlock would hide the note away and never mention it again. Then he realised Sherlock was mentioning it again, now; for whatever reason, he wanted John to see this memory. Maybe there was no other reason than he wanted John to see it, to see something Sherlock would never have been able to say in words.

With this in mind, John leant over his shoulder and read Mycroft’s final advice to his younger brother; where he had told Sherlock not to go it alone, to do it as a team. Sherlock’s hands were trembling slightly as he read it. John felt a lump in his own throat as he looked at the young man standing there.

“Why didn’t you listen to him, Sherlock?” He asked. “Why didn’t you let us help you?”

But of course, there was no answer. This was all in the past, and Sherlock didn’t know he was there.

For a moment Sherlock stood unmoving, looking at the paper in his hands, and then John himself came in and the note, dismissed as irrelevant, was ferreted away. John never felt more guilty as he realised he had interrupted Sherlock at an important moment. Still, as he watched, the two of them went to Mycroft’s study, located Mycroft’s copy of the map he had died to make, and filled in the gaps. It was all just as John remembered, and the very thought made a line of cold sweat swell into beads on his forehead. This was the moment when Sherlock would ask him to try and place the Dark Mark on the map, from the memory of his prophecy. This was back before they had known what the Dark Mark was, or the power it held; but John remembered well enough the skull and the snake that had filled his mind as he had tried to draw them, the smoke in the awful empty eyes. According to Sherlock, it had been some sort of anti-copying spell that had made him have some sort of fit.  All John knew was it had shown him things that would reappear periodically in his nightmares.

John found his whole body tensing as he watched Sherlock steer his younger self into the chair of Mycroft’s desk, watched Sherlock put the quill in his hand and tell him he could do it. All John wanted to do was to pull it out of his hand again, to stop this before it began, but of course he couldn’t intervene. It wouldn’t have been so bad if this work had enabled Dumbledore and the others to find Voldemort, to have found him then would have stopped everything that followed; all this terror, all the violence and the killings, all of it. Mycroft’s death would no longer have been in vain but the key that saved countless lives, he would have been the only one that had to die. And maybe Jim wouldn’t have broken up with Molly, wouldn’t have disappeared, then maybe he would still be around and the three of them would go and drag Sherlock out drinking with them and everything would be just as it should be.

John shook his head, banishing the unusual flood of emotion. There was no point chasing what ifs. He decided it was best to distract himself by pondering how strange it was to see the back of your own head. He’d never seen it before. He tried to focus on this rather than what was about to happen, but it was difficult as he watched himself take a deep breath. Sherlock took a few steps away from the desk, eyes shining with anticipation as John, his eyes still closed, began to draw.

John noticed it starting perhaps before even Sherlock did, after all, he knew what was coming. First of all it was nothing but a twitch, a tremor that ran through his younger self. Then he jerked wildly, even as he continued to draw.

“John?” Sherlock asked, wary.  John’s younger self was shaking and racked with wild spasms now, moans of sheer terror coming through chattering teeth. Sherlock hurried over just as a particularly wild burst sent John out of the seat, tumbling heavily onto the floor. There was a snap as the quill broke.

Watching himself, John couldn’t deny it was unsettling to see himself contorted in such a fit, his face bathed in sweat, bucking on the floor. Somehow, it was a bit embarrassing; collapsed in death throes on the floor was not a good look for anyone. Still, there was something else. John wasn’t a teenager, still at school, anymore. He was a fully-trained, fully-qualified healer. He had seen anti-copying jinxes backfire a hundred times, but even the most powerful he had seen did no worse than break a wrist. They caused physical injury, not sent people into fits. He looked at Sherlock, trying to work out if he knew. If Sherlock had lied to him. But Sherlock seemed to be frozen in shock, no deductions, no white writing. He didn’t seem to know what to do.

Sherlock shook himself visibly, and then dove to the floor, trying to hold John’s younger self still. The older looked on, noting that Sherlock was obviously terrified and feeling rather touched. If nothing else, Sherlock had been genuinely concerned for him.

“John!” Sherlock shouted. “John, settle down! What’s wrong with you? Mycroft is dead, John, if you choose to die now your timing will be exceedingly poor!”

John wondered if Sherlock knew he sounded exactly like Mycroft when he was stressed and decided to point it out at the next appropriate opportunity.

“John! Wake up!” Sherlock began to slap his friend harshly around the face. John couldn’t help but wince in sympathy. “John!”

Sherlock hit him several times more, calling John’s name, his breath becoming more frantic, his face more panicked and strained the more times he had to try, before John finally  jerked, startled.

“Sherlock!” John watched his younger self stagger to his feet, hanging onto the oak panels of the study walls for support. He hadn’t realised just how rough he had looked then, pale and shaking and clearly in shock. As he watched his younger self carry on, John felt tried to console himself that he had had every right to look that rattled after such a terrible fit, that still haunted him in the dark hours even now. “Sherlock, it was there. The skull. It was there and it saw me and it knew I was copying it and-!”

“John!” Sherlock said, grabbing hold of his arms. “Calm down. It’s alright. There’s nothing there.”

“…what happened?”

John watched Sherlock carefully, trying to work out if Sherlock believed what he replied. Judging by the guilt he saw flickering in Sherlock’s eyes as he answered, the other boy had known full well that this was a more than a normal curse. “Some kind of anti-copying jinx, at a guess. You just started having a fit.” He looked over at his friend, worried. “I had no idea it would have such an effect on you. Are you alright?”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” John snorted at this; he had clearly not been fine. If he had known how awful he looked, he might not have bothered lying.  “…I’m sorry, Sherlock. I tried. I really did; but that skull, it was just so awful…”

Sherlock was making one of his deductions. The white writing was appearing above John, looking like it said something like ‘marked’, but the memory ended there, suddenly and abruptly. Perhaps it was painful for Sherlock to think about. All John wanted to know was what had actually made him have a fit that day when he saw the Dark Mark, and what it meant for him now.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

                The memories were still going strong. This time John found with some surprise that he was back on Platform 9 ¾. The brightness had been turned back up again; Sherlock was looking around at the assembled students and parents and the white text was appearing as he made deductions- some rather impolite- about them all. Clearly Sherlock had recovered from Mycroft’s death and was back on full form, but he didn’t physically look much older. At a guess, John believed this to be September of 1970 or 1971; which either way begged the question of why Sherlock was there at all. He seemed oblivious to the suspicious looks of parents and students, however, and simply stepped aboard the Hogwarts Express as if he had every right to be there, heading directly to their usual compartment at the very end of the train. John followed, invisible to those around him, rolling his eyes. Sherlock sometimes seemed to forget that the world changed, even if he didn’t.

                There was a little boy in their old compartment, clearly a first year, hiding behind a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , huddled right in the corner, his trunk on the floor. Sherlock looked at it, and labelled it _Too heavy to lift_ , looking at the boy who was now peering over the top of his newspaper. Sherlock looked at his arms.

                _Advanced muscle development for his age_.

                Sherlock looked at the trunk again in puzzlement. It wasn’t hard to guess what he was wondering. If the boy was strong enough to lift his trunk into the luggage rack, why hadn’t he?

                _Hiding his strength._ Sherlock decided. _Wide eyed. Anxious. Hiding more than his strength._ He looked again at the boy’s wrist, noting a silver bracelet. The boy hastily dropped his paper, tugging his sleeves down.

                _Silver._ Sherlock noted. _Does not wish it to be seen._

_Wide eyes. Slightly pointed at edges._

_Open body language. Consciously non-aggressive._

_Head tilted towards me. Animalistic._

_Bags under eyes. Bitten finger nails._

_Five days until full moon._

“Werewolf.” Sherlock muttered, at the same time as it appeared in his deductions.

                “What?!” John demanded. Even having seen the reasoning, he wasn’t sure he could believe it. He stared at the little boy, who didn’t seem to have heard Sherlock any more than he had been able to hear John, but squirmed uncomfortably under Sherlock’s scrutiny. John shook his head, from surprise rather than disapproval.  If Dumbledore was letting in werewolves now, he probably wasn’t making himself very popular.

                “Get out of my compartment.” Sherlock told the little boy as the train began to move, who held his ground for a moment and then, dragging his trunk after him, moved across the corridor where he shyly asked admission to join some other first year boys and, after their enthusiastic approval, entered and shut the door behind him. John sighed. Sherlock was being unbearably rude again, but at least this way the wolf boy had the chance of making some friends. He would probably need them.

                Sherlock didn’t seem to be feeling any remorse at all as he settled himself into his usual spot in the corner that had now been vacated. For a moment he watched the scenery passing by the window, his thoughts as inscrutable to John as always. Before long, however, his patience obviously snapped and he picked up the abandoned newspaper, looking for a way to occupy himself. It was _The Daily Prophet_ , dated 1st September 1971, back in the days when Voldemort was still little more than a name and a rumour, the fears spreading before any real events justified them. John had almost given up on reading the paper in those days, as they just recycled again and again the little information they had and raised speculation. He hadn’t stopped though; sure that sooner or later something would happen and wanting a way to know about it when it did. Still, he didn’t remember the article Sherlock was now looking at with cold fury. He must have missed it somehow, because he would have remembered it if he’d read it and he probably would have camped out at Baker Street until he caught Sherlock to ask about it.

                **_Milverton dies in Azkaban_** , the headline read.

                _Readers will recall Charles Augustus Milverton, once head of the Department for International Magical Co-operation. Milverton was found guilty of murder in April of this year and subsequently sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban, but was today found dead in his cell. There were no signs of violence and no cause to suspect the Dementors had deviated from orders, making it apparent that this is simply another death to despair. However, Milverton’s death and the current social climate surely opens the floor to a re-examination of the facts._

_The victim of Milverton’s supposed crime, Mycroft Holmes, was just twenty-four years old at the time of his death but had already begun a promising career at the Ministry, serving as Milverton’s Deputy Minister at the time. The motivation was believed to be professional jealousy as Mr Holmes had already been offered and turned down several promotions, so that it was generally believed he was waiting on Milverton’s position; previously held by his father and several others among his ancestors. The fact that Milverton was subsequently proved to be a squib while Mr Holmes was well known to be a capable and knowledgeable young wizard seemed to be the final proof that the crime was motivated by envy._

_However, well-versed readers may remember that Mr Milverton always insisted on his innocence. At all interrogations by the Auror office (available as a matter of public record), as well as at the trial, Mr Milverton insisted that he had caught Mr Holmes attempting to steal important confidential documents and a struggle ensued; which would make the murder an act of self-defence. This was dismissed unlikely as the murder weapon was proven to be a spear broken off the fountain in the Entrance Hall of the Ministry of Magic, recently replaced with a bow and arrow to avoid any disrespect. However, recently we have seen signs of underlying trouble at the Ministry, and confidential sources have revealed Mycroft Holmes’ name in connection with an abandoned attempt to have any more muggle-born children prevented  from entering Hogwarts; a move that has since been connected to followers of the Dark Wizard known as Voldemort. Could the despair that drove Mr Milverton to his death be the final despair of an innocent man, wrongly convicted? However unlikely it seems, in this time of suspicion, the Ministry owes it to the public to be open and dispel any dark clouds of mystery that may be forming surrounding a truly shameful incident in its history that it would surely rather we forgot._

Sherlock was gripping the newspaper so hard that his thumb ripped through the paper, shaking with unusual rage. John didn’t blame him, feeling pretty appalled himself. If he ever met the reporter, he was going to punch him in the face for the things he had said. No reinvestigation had ever happened, Milverton’s death had evidently been a non-event besides this one short article, but the words had been written, and published, and somewhere out there people were going around with the suspicion in the backs of their minds that Mycroft Holmes had died working for Voldemort, not against him. John punched the compartment door in sympathetic anger, sure that Sherlock would appreciate it if he could see it, even as the younger Holmes forcibly regained his control, tore the article out, and folded it neatly away in his pocket. He then tossed the newspaper aside and turned to the window, barely moving for the rest of the journey.

When they arrived at Hogsmeade, Sherlock stepped off the train behaving as if he had every right to be there and made for the horseless carriages. “Hello, Hagrid.” He said casually to the giant Gamekeeper as he gathered up the first years. Hagrid looked up at him in surprise.

                “Blimey, if it ent Sherlock Holmes! What’re you doing here?!”

                “I have business with Dumbledore.” Sherlock answered. “How are the ferrets doing?”

                “Breeding up jus’ nice.” Hagrid said cheerfully. “Agatha’s got grandkids now.”

                “Good.” Sherlock nodded goodbye and stepped into an empty carriage, firmly shutting the door on any students who may have attempted to get in with him. After a few minutes everyone was squeezed in and the carriages rattled up towards the castle. Sherlock took the newspaper article out of his pocket and read it again, glaring fiercely at it as if he was trying to persuade the words to change. They didn’t, so Sherlock folded it up once again and crossed the grounds swiftly, marching straight into the hall and up to the staff table. Dumbledore looked slightly amused.

                “Ah, Mr Holmes, I did not expect you to take up my invitation so swiftly when I wrote to you this morning.”

                “The Hogwarts Express seemed the easiest way to get here.” Sherlock returned. “And I don’t think you expected anything else of me. Now, you wanted to see me?”

                “Perhaps we can just step up to my office; but we will have to be quick, the students will be waiting for their supper…”

                Sherlock pulled a face showing how little he cared about the students and their supper before following Dumbledore out of the Great Hall and up to his office. John looked around at the corridors and halls as they passed and couldn’t help but think how long ago it all seemed since the days of potions and chemistry and the violin in the Gryffindor Common Room, since the search for the Chamber of Secrets and adventures looking for mushrooms in the Forbidden Forest, since the days of Jim trying every day to make Molly blush more and the four of them all sitting together on the corner of the Gryffindor table. He had always believed that memories belonged in the past, but it was nice to look back sometimes; and even a life lived without regret could look back and wonder how things would have been if something was different. John was asking those questions more and more these days, more than he ever had in his life, but he shook the thoughts away. What ifs had never been his style.

                “I assume this is why you asked me here?” Sherlock asked the moment the office door was closed, presenting Dumbledore with the article.

                “Yes. I wondered if you would have heard the news by the time you arrived here.”

                “I’ve heard it.” Sherlock said briskly, folding it away. “I fail to see why it should concern me. I assure you, I won’t be shedding any tears over Milverton. As for the allegations against my brother…” He shrugged. “Well, they can hardly hurt him now and, if they do somehow work their way into the afterlife, I’m sure Mycroft is old enough and dead enough to deal with it himself.”

                Dumbledore considered Sherlock carefully, not yet commenting. John rolled his eyes, wishing that just occasionally Sherlock would admit how he really felt about things.

                “You’ve worked out the true cause of Milverton’s death?” Dumbledore asked.

                “He’s a squib.” Sherlock answered. “Not exactly in-keeping with Voldemort’s image. He was useful in killing Mycroft, but now…”

                “Now they have no need of him.” John finished, though neither of them could hear him. It was only when he said it aloud that he realised the problem with his words. “Wait, if this is 1971, Mycroft died more than a year ago. Sherlock, if that’s all it is, why wasn’t he killed off before this?”

                John thought this was a pertinent question, although he wasn’t expecting an answer. Naturally, however, Sherlock had already considered it.

                “It tells us two things, so far as I can tell, Professor.” Sherlock said. “Neither of them particularly good. First of all, most obviously, it tells us Voldemort’s followers have some way of getting into Azkaban, which means they can presumably get out, which means at any given moment we could have a mob of the worst of the country’s criminals, driven half mad by their time inside, descend on us under the command of a tyrant; not to mention that he probably has some sort of understanding with the Dementors if not an outright alliance. But I wouldn’t worry, I don’t think we need to concern ourselves with that for the moment.”

                “I am getting old, Mr Holmes.” Dumbledore said mildly. “I beg your patience in explaining your youthful leap of logic.”

                “Milverton has been killed.”

                “Indeed?”

                Sherlock scowled, a scowl John had seen plenty of times, but up until now employed exclusively against Mycroft and Jim; the you’re-smarter-than-this-and-I-expected-better scowl. “If Milverton was allowed to live before, but eliminated now, it can only mean that Voldemort has enough support now to be fussy about who he lets into his ranks.”

                “Surely, then, these new supporters could be the occupants of Azkaban?”

                “Doubtful. Criminals aren’t exactly trustworthy and historically not great at team work. Voldemort is power mad, he’ll want dog-like loyalty, and if you’re bad enough and stupid enough to land yourself in Azkaban, you’re unlikely to be a follower. Convicts would be chaotic, hard to control, and unlikely to subscribe to an ideology. Besides, if he was going to fill up from Azkaban, he’d be less likely to kill Milverton, not more; Milverton at least would be loyal and-” Sherlock stopped abruptly. Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling slightly. Sherlock flopped angrily into a chair. “If you already know all this, Professor, why waste my time having me say it?”

                “Forgive me, Mr Holmes, I was turning over several possibilities in my mind, but I knew I could trust you to hit on the correct solution amongst them. I had, as you have realised, noticed the two facts we could gain from the event of Milverton’s death, but I assure you I was quite unable to connect them.” Dumbledore intertwined his hands, leaning forward on them. “I have heard that young Mr Moran is planning a long holiday out of the country.”

                John blinked at this apparent non-sequiter, wondering what Moran had to do with anything. The last John had heard, Moran had got himself a low-level job in the Department of Sport, something in admin. As it so often was, however, his magical instincts were ahead of his brain and his heart sank in preparation.

                “It isn’t unexpected.” Sherlock shrugged. “They are probably seeking to get people on side from abroad. If Voldemort has enough support overseas, it will be that much easier to take the Ministry and then who knows where it will stop.”

                “They?” John asked, unheard.

                “You are persuaded, then, that they are together?” Dumbledore asked.

                Sherlock nodded. “Moran is Moriarty’s bag man, always has been, ever since fifth year. He does the visible work so Moriarty can hide in the grass. Find Moran and you’ll find him too, I guarantee it.” He smiled without mirth. “Well, unless dear old Jim manages to slither away again.”

                “Sherlock.”  Dumbledore said, quietly. “I have been in touch with the warden at Azkaban. It seems Milverton was visited a few days ago. It was the first visit he’s received since his internment.”

                Sherlock shrugged. “Probably his killer, come to assess the lie of the land, and to taunt him. Let him stew before he dies.”

                “The visitor gave his name as George Rathlin.”

                Sherlock, naturally, made sense of this before John did, the white writing flashing by unnoticed and too fast to read anyway, even if he hadn’t still been reeling from the idea that Moran, the silent, withdrawn young man who nether the less John had considered to be a friend, who he had dormed with for years, could be another villain.

                “Rathlin?” Sherlock repeated. “I take it that isn’t a common surname.”

                “There are no wizards of that name on record.”

                “No, but there is a Rathlin Island, just off the coast of Ireland. Charming place, only one wizarding family, though.” Dumbledore nodded his assent and Sherlock continued. “It was probably a test of loyalty. He kills off Milverton, proves he’s a good little boy that does what he’s told and then he’s trusted to go and rally the troops abroad.”

                Dumbledore said nothing for a moment, then spoke carefully. “Now, Mr Holmes, I’ve heard that you haven’t seen your grandmother since your brother’s funeral. Perhaps it’s time you crossed the channel to visit with her and your cousins.”

                Sherlock frowned. “I don’t like riddles, Professor.”

                “I know, I still recall that you apparently only gained your own way into your common room two, perhaps three times in your entire school career.”

                “I mean, I want us to speak plainly.” Sherlock continued, glaring. “If you want me to go over there and sweet talk people onto our side, you’ve chosen the wrong person. Jim could charm a tortoise to abandon its shell if he wanted to. I, however, tend to irritate people.”

                _At least he realises it._ John thought wryly.

                “It is a lonely journey to make alone, yes.” Dumbledore answered, looking slightly amused again. “Why don’t you take Mr Watson with you? I’m sure he is probably worried about you, and he won’t have so much time once he becomes Doctor Watson, I believe.”

                “You want John to join the Order? No.”

                John was more than a little surprised. In spite of Sherlock’s request that he stayed out of it, that he kept his hands clean, and Molly’s own assertion that Sherlock had wanted him kept in the dark, hearing the blunt refusal was more than a little offensive to him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that if Sherlock had agreed with Dumbledore that he could be somehow useful, his feelings and moral purity wouldn’t have been of the slightest concern. He still remembered the letter he would write to Dumbledore the following year, after the Dark Mark burnt in the sky for the first time, and Dumbledore’s transparent refusal. He had never even thought that perhaps Dumbledore had been acting against his own wishes, and felt a stab of resentment, even anger, towards Sherlock. Was this what Sherlock had been so worried about showing him, the cause of the awful guilt in his eyes as he handed the memories over?

                “I believe John would be a valuable addition to our group, Mr Holmes.” Dumbledore said quietly, his own surprise evident.

                “You can sit here and play general all you like.” Sherlock dismissed. “I am not a member of your little army and never will be, even if our goals sometimes overlap.”

                “Sherlock, your brother’s death was unfortunate, but it was his wish that-”

                “Mycroft was wrong!” Sherlock snapped, for a moment his inner anger breaking into his voice. “I am doing this alone, regardless of what he said. Because he didn’t realise what you are.”

                “What I am?” Dumbledore was even more taken aback at this.

                “No, he didn’t realise just how similar to Jim Moriarty you are.” It was Sherlock’s turn to lean forward now. “It seems to me that anyone who messes around with Philosopher Stones and Elixirs of Life probably understands better than anyone how Jim Moriarty feels.”

                “You may perhaps be right.” Dumbledore said, after a long and weighty pause. “I use only the Elixir, Mr Holmes, until I gather sufficient courage to face Death. It is my own fear I wish to overcome, not to inspire it in others.”

                Sherlock studied him closely, but then seemed to believe him as he slumped back in the chair, relaxing slightly.

                “Very well, however, I will not speak to Mr Watson about joining the Order as of yet. I do think, however, it would be prudent of you to bring him on your travels.” Dumbledore’s voice softened again. “He is a strong and loyal friend. He will not let you down.”

                Sherlock shook his head vigorously. “John has to be kept out of it, Professor. He has to be kept out of all of it.”

                “…is there something you’d perhaps like to share with me, Mr Holmes?”

                “Voldemort’s symbol.” Sherlock said, shortly. “The skull and the snake. John had… what appeared to be a fit when he copied it.”

                Dumbledore frowned, and sat back, worry creasing his brow. It appeared he knew exactly what Sherlock was driving toward, though John himself had no idea.

                “He said the skull knew he was there. It seems likely that the symbol is connected to Voldemort, communicates with him. John has been… marked. As long as he keeps his head down and stays out of it, he’s too unimportant to be worried about, but the moment he makes a stand…”

                “Voldemort would know precisely how and where to find him.”

                “That’s my theory.” Sherlock paused, looking away, and when he turned back the guilt in his eyes had been repressed. “They’re usually correct.”

                “Therefore, out of concern for your friend-”

                “He would be a liability.” Sherlock said hastily. He was ignored.

                “-you wish him kept out of it. Very well. I see no other alternative.”

                “I don’t want him involved.”

                “I understand.”

                Sherlock nodded, standing to leave.

                “One more thing, if I might trouble you, Sherlock.” Dumbledore said. “I was wondering why he chose the first name George. Does it have some significance?”

                Sherlock laughed. “George Harrison.” He said.

                “The name is unfamiliar to me.”

                “That’s because you never had a conversation with Molly Hooper in 1964.” Sherlock answered. “They call him ‘The Forgotten Beatle’.”

                Dumbledore looked baffled, but smiled. “I confess, I don’t understand what it means.”

                “It means that he’s leaving me clues.” Sherlock said, looking worryingly pleased with this development. “It’s just Jim’s unique way of inviting me to dance.”

                “Mr Holmes,” Dumbledore said, carefully. “There are things that need to be done. However, I don’t believe anything positive ever came of a vendetta.”

                “Of course not.” Sherlock said, shrugging. “But then, it would be rude to refuse.” And with that, he swept out of the room and the room faded to black.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

                Other memories followed in quick succession, but they didn’t make much sense. If he was honest, John knew, it was probably just because he wasn’t paying enough attention. But, as he watched Sherlock follow Moriarty’s trail first to France, then into Germany, gradually moving East, he didn’t have the energy to keep up with Sherlock’s whirl of deductions. He had been marked. Now he knew, he could feel it and wondered how he had never known it before. He could feel it like dirt in his system, grit in his veins. Ironically, for the first time, he felt the term ‘Mudblood’ fit him quite well.  The other connotations were worse. If Voldemort was watching him, had he been putting everyone around him at risk all this time, all the patients in the hospital, his muggle family, Molly? There seemed to be little doubt that he was the reason she had threats painted on her wall.  John shook his head, angry. Sherlock should have told him, although rationally he knew there would have been little point if no-one could do anything about it. In spite of his anger, the following memories were enough to drive it out of his head almost entirely.

                Sherlock was back in London now, and seemed to have spent the last few years half on Jim’s tail, about to close in on him, and the other half out of ideas. It was an intense game of cat and mouse, a battle of intellects that was probably thrilling to the participants, but to the outside spectator was a bit like watching chess grand masters play one another; a lot of people thinking and then making a move incomprehensible to those not in the know, even ones aided by the annotated edition of a certain genius’ memories. Finding the lights came up on Sherlock browsing in the newsagents John soon recognised as the one at the end of Molly’s street, however, John realised Sherlock had finished showing off how clever he was now and they were back to the important stuff.

                A few years had changed Sherlock more than John cared to admit. His travels had left him thin and ragged looking, his hair too long, and at this point, with the rather unattractive straggling hairs of a three-week beard, bruises old and new visible around the edges of his shirt from various run ins with traps and ambushes and chance encounters with Death Eaters. He was stood, pretending to be deciding between newspapers, but all the time keeping an eye on the window. The proprietor was looking at him suspiciously. Sherlock had clearly noticed as he was looking out more frequently, more desperately. Any second now he would be moved on from his vigil. Just as the shopkeeper started to pointedly clear his throat, there was a loud crack from down the street. To the muggle residents, it would sound like a car back firing, but John and Sherlock knew differently. Sherlock cursed, threw the newspaper down and ran out, ignoring the shouts of the shop keeper, ran all the way up to the house. The front door was still locked, looking for all the world as if nothing was wrong, but as Sherlock turned on the spot and got inside, wand drawn, it was too late. The crack they had heard must have been Jim apparating away again, presumably from the back garden, just so he could be sure Sherlock would hear and realise he had been too late. Sherlock slapped his palm against one of the arm chairs in frustration. It didn’t make a difference. Molly’s living room was completely trashed, with nothing in its place and nothing on its feet. None of it seemed to matter, of course, compared to the blood-written letters on the wall.

_Stay away from the Mudblood; squibs & blood traitors will be next!_

Sherlock righted the arm chair and sat for some time analysing the writing in his mind’s eye, white overlaying the red, until he came up with no fewer than twenty three separate indications that this message was undoubtedly left by Jim, John’s particular favourite being that, according to Sherlock’s reasoning, no-one else would use both a semi-colon and an ampersand, symbols of literacy and illiteracy respectively, in the same sentence. As usual, he couldn’t help but be a little amazed at his friend’s talents, nor could he argue with the conclusions, just stand back and marvel.

Sherlock was less successful in his attempts at tidying up. The room itself didn’t take more than a few waves of his wand and the briefest pause to look at the old photo of the four of them that they all had a copy of, which he scowled at and put face down, probably not wanting to be reminded of a time when the enemy was his friend. The wall gave him more problems. He gave it a final look over, committing it to memory, before taking out his wand again and attempting to clear it off. It didn’t work, no matter what spell he tried. Finally, he ruffled his hair up in frustration and suddenly seemed to realise what a state he was in. He considered for a moment, and then headed upstairs, finding a disposable razor in the bathroom cabinet and having a much needed wash and shave. At a guess, he had probably intended to leave as if nothing had ever happened, but couldn’t let Molly be on her own when she discovered the threat. His shave completed, he wiped down the sink and, finding a brush, made some attempt to tidy his hair. John waited anxiously, knowing that any minute now Molly was going to come home and get the fright of her life. The same thing obviously occurred to Sherlock a few minutes later as he went back downstairs, located the pad of paper next to the telephone and wrote a quick note: _I’m inside. Don’t be alarmed. – SH,_ and stuck it to the outside of the front door before settling down in the living room to wait, simply looking at the message, deep in thought, until Molly ran inside.

“Sherlock?” She said, breathlessly, her voice in the hall. Sherlock stood to receive her, but she hurtled in, hugging him so tightly she knocked him back into the chair. Sherlock looked rather taken aback himself, clearly having no idea what to do or say as she talked at him rapidly, firing out questions and exclamations at top speed. Finally, unable to take any more, Sherlock covered her mouth with his hand.

“Molly, settle down.” He said, exasperated. “Now, Molly, I want you to look behind you, but don’t panic.”

Molly, confused, looked over her shoulder. In fairness to her, she didn’t panic, but simply settled down onto the settee, unable to look away from the awful writing.

“Who did this?” She asked.

“Jim Moriarty.” Sherlock answered, not pulling any punches as usual. “On behalf of the Death Eaters.”

Molly refused to believe it at first, but Sherlock laid out proof after proof until she could no longer deny it and started crying instead. Sherlock looked utterly startled.

“Molly…” he said, uncertainly.

“I’m fine.” She sniffed, wiping her eyes dry. “I’m sorry, I’m fine.”

“I’ll stay with you for a few days.” Sherlock said. “And I think you should stay off work tomorrow, just in case. I’ll keep you safe, Molly, so you don’t need to worry.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” She sighed, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “It’s not that that’s upsetting me.”

Sherlock looked confused. Molly shook her head and went into the kitchen.

“Let’s go into the other room.” She said. “I’ll make tea and then you can tell me everything.”

And that, to John’s immense irritation, was where that particular memory ended. Sherlock had obviously decided John would know everything he needed to from the montage of his travels, as usual completely misunderstanding the needs of lesser mortals. John almost wondered if Sherlock had simply included this scene to show what he considered to be the baffling nature of women, perhaps hoping that John would at some point explain what had upset her. Even so, John’s heart was hammering in his chest, his magical sense going crazy and he knew they were approaching the climax. Very few days had passed between this scene with Molly and Sherlock stumbling into the hospital, almost dead. John had no idea what was coming, but he knew the result was going to be terrible.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

The beginning of the next scene was familiar to John, it was the next day, when he had come to check on the supposedly sick Molly. The doorbell went and she peeped through the hole in the door.

“It’s John!” She squeaked to Sherlock, who had been standing behind her, poised with his wand. Sherlock relaxed.

“He can’t know I’m here.” Sherlock said, urgently.

“But, Sherlock, he worries about you all the time, are you sure we can’t…?”

“No, no, he can’t be involved in this. They’re already after you, let’s not make this any messier than it needs to be.”

The bell rang again.

“Then what am I supposed to say to him?” Molly said, agonised.

“Just act normally, Molly, tell him you’re ill and don’t mention the writing on the wall. He’d only want to help and he can’t, alright? He cannot help.”

“Alright…”

“Good.” With that, he hurried upstairs. John followed, having already heard Molly’s attempts at rebuffing him before, and getting rather tired of the unnerving feeling that accompanied seeing yourself from the outside. Sherlock hid in the spare room where he had been staying, but, on hearing John starting to come upstairs, opened the window and climbed out onto the roof of the garden shed. He slammed the window loudly behind him, to let them know he was gone, and clambered away, deft as a monkey, into next door’s garden and away down the street.

Sherlock never returned to Molly’s. He reached the end of the street, waiting, hidden, for some time in the yard at the back of the corner shop to make sure John had left before climbing over the fence and onto the street proper. To John’s immense surprise, and apparently to Sherlock’s, standing opposite was a hooded Death Eater, barely visible in the black of the night. Sherlock was on him in an instant, wand outstretched, mouth open, ready with a curse, but the Death Eater pulled down his hood and it was the face of Jim Moriarty, gaunt and pale, but Jim Moriarty, grinning like a Jack-o-Latern, standing opposite Sherlock Holmes at the end of Molly’s street.

“Aww, now, Sherly, you don’t want to do that, do you?” He laughed. “We’ve just been reunited, let’s not fight right away.”

He obviously expected his words to have little effect, however, as he apparated away that instant, Sherlock’s curse hitting the hedge behind where he had been standing. Sherlock wasted no time but immediately apparated, pulling John and his memories with him.

John knew where they were even before the world stopped spinning, just from the sound of the wind in the grass. They were up on a hill in the middle of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by ocean, by the old keep that was the Moriarty household, in the middle of Rathlin Island, a place where John had spent one of the happiest summers of his life. The house was lit, presumably Jim’s parents still lived there, but Sherlock turned away from it, making his way over the field and down the ladder hidden there, into the smuggler’s cave that had been their base during the summer, and there he sat down to wait and wait and wait. Once, during the following afternoon, he apparated to get some supplies, then continued his lonely vigil. It must have gone on for some days, but John was glad that the memories skipped ahead to the action.

It was night time, and the cave was dark, lit only by a circle of eerie blue light from Sherlock’s lantern, and the dim reflection of the moonlight out on the ocean beyond the mouth of the cave. Sherlock was awake, wrapped in a blanket, his breath crystallising in front of him. Unusually for him, he didn’t seem bored. It was, John supposed, the patience of the hunter. Even Sherlock could wait for something like this. John’s heart was now thudding so loudly he was glad no-one would be able to hear it. Way up above, there was a quiet grating noise as someone pulled back the cover over the ladder. Sherlock deftly  threw off his blanket, hiding it in the shadows beneath a rock ledge and crouching there himself, extinguishing the lantern with a whispered spell word and setting it down next to him.

Up above, a familiar voice said “ _Lumos”_ , and a ball of light floated down into the cave. Jim Moriarty followed it, climbing down the ladder, his back to the cave. John felt very exposed, standing there out in the open, with the enemy approaching. Memory or not, he reached for his wand and felt better when it was firmly pointed at Moriaty’s back. Sherlock went further and was up in a moment, his wand ready.

 _“Petrificus Totalus.”_ He said, perfectly calm. Jim lost his grip on the ladder, and fell to the floor. Sherlock stood over him, his wand pointed quite steadily at Jim’s frozen face.

“Well.” Sherlock said. “Here we are. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came back here.” He pressed his wand into Jim’s chest. “You shouldn’t have threatened Molly, Jim. Now you have to die.”

Yet, even as he said it, he hesitated, and that was enough. Jim, who was supposed to be paralyzed, began to laugh.

“Oh, really, Sherlock, you think I didn’t know you were down here?” He smirked. “You think I didn’t cast a shield charm? You’re losing your touch. Oh,” He reached up, looking innocent, and pushed Sherlock’s wand aside. “Better move that. You could take someone’s eye out with that.”

All at once, the fight started, curses and jinxes flying back and forth so quickly it made the cave look like a fireworks display had been set off underground. What annoyed John was that even as the battle fiercely reined, with all sorts of imaginative and unusual spells being worked, neither one of them tried to disarm the other. True, between the counter-curses and shielding charms being worked into the duel, and the physical ducking and dodging and weaving, neither one of them was landing more than the odd glancing blow, but neither one of them even tried. It was clear, John supposed, that the time for peaceful solutions had passed. More than once, when he saw Sherlock in a tight spot, he instinctively responded with his own wand, but here in the world of memory it did nothing but shoot a ghostly smoke, that went unnoticed by the combatants.

Moriarty had been gradually forcing Sherlock back, so that now the fight had spilled out of the cave and onto the open sand. This was where things turned sour for Sherlock. He hadn’t taken more than three steps away from the mouth of the cave before he was hit with the same stunning spell he had tried to use against Moriarty. Only it hadn’t come from before him, but to the side.

“Surprise.” Jim said, sauntering over, taking his time. “I told you I’d made preparations, but you didn’t listen, did you? No, of course you didn’t, because you always think you’re soooooooo clever. But look at you now.” He sat down next to Sherlock in the sand, a parody of the way they had sat all those years before. “Still, this is nice, isn’t it? Just like old times. Except that you can’t talk and I’ve got Moran by the cliff over there ready to get you if you recover. Sebby, give us a wave!”

Moran, who John could now make out skulking in the dip in one of the cliffs, did nothing, keeping his wand ready. Jim pouted.

“Oh well, it’s not like you could see him anyway. All you can see is the stars.” Jim looked up too, following Sherlock’s frozen gaze. “It’s a good thing it’s a clear night out, considering it’s the last thing you’ll ever see.” He patted Sherlock’s arm with something almost like affection. “We were wrong, you know. He doesn’t know anything about immortality, or if he does, he isn’t going to share, not old Voldemort. But now…” Jim leaned conspiratorially in towards Sherlock’s ear and whispered. “I have an idea all of my very own. What do you know about horcruxes, Sherley?”

Sherlock, of course, couldn’t move; but John, who had never so much as heard the word before, had reaction enough for two of them. The word was like a smothering pillow, like the darkest depths of the ocean, that drowned him on the outside and set fire to him on the inside. His sensitive leg nearly gave out there and then even just hearing the word in a memory. He had no idea what a horcrux was, but if ever his magical instinct had told him anything, it was telling him now that Jim was dancing with the devil, dipping his feet into the depths of evil.

“It’s not real immortality, of course.” Jim said. “Not like how I want it. But it’s close enough, for a start, and it’s really quite simple. First, you need a vessel. Here’s mine, all ready.” From inside his shirt collar, he pulled out an intricate silver locket on a chain, probably some sort of family antique. “And then, you just need to kill someone. See, apparently, killing someone damages your soul, permanently, a little bit tears off it; but if you can trap it on its way, hey presto chango, you have your own little guarantee against death of the irreversible kind. Of course, your soul is still trapped in a locket, but hey, at least you’re not dead, know what I mean? You might call it playing God, but that’s always been my favourite game.” He stood up, brushing the sand casually off his trousers. As he spoke, Moran approached, so that they surrounded him on either side as Jim took out his wand. “Anyway, Sherley, you’re going to help me. Thank you so much, I always knew you would.” He paused, but Sherlock, of course, didn’t reply; he couldn’t, though inside his mind he was probably going haywire, trying to shake off the bonds of the spell. “Oh, come on.” Jim said, smiling nastily. “Say something. _Crucio!”_

Sherlock bucked on the floor, his eyes rolling in his head.

“I’m sorry, what was that? _Crucio!”_

Sherlock bucked on the floor again, just like the spider Jim had tortured years ago on the river bank, although this time it was Moran that stood by and watched. John, however, couldn’t. Stupid it may have been, but he wasn’t the kind who could stand and watch a friend being tortured without doing something. So he tried his wand again, and when that didn’t work, he tried to physically grab hold of Jim, but his hands went through him like water, like a memory, and all the while Jim kept repeating his spell.

“ _Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!_ ”

On the ground, Sherlock groaned softly, flinching as he was hit again, pain beaten into every feature of his face, it making no difference when John vainly tried to stand between him and the spell. John couldn’t stand it. Why was Sherlock making him watch this? Clearly this had been how he had sustained his injury, but to see his friend being tortured so brutally by someone he had cared about-

John was wrong. This was not how Sherlock had gained his injury, at least, not entirely. Somehow, and John didn’t know how, the strength seemed impossible, but between spasms of pain, Sherlock managed to raise his hand and get out the word “ _Expelliarmus”_ in choking breaths. The spell was weak, very weak, but considering Sherlock was performing wandless magic under such a strain, it was remarkable it worked at all. After that, everything happened at once. Moriarty took the half step necessary to retrieve his wand, Sherlock managed to roll out of the way and avoid Moran’s stunning spell, taking his wand out of his pocket, managing to cast a shielding charm just as Moriarty spewed fire from the end of his wand. It took the last of Sherlock’s strength to make his shield withstand the flames, but Moran was not so lucky. The fire ricocheted off the shield and, before he could do anything, Moran was consumed in the inferno. For a second, just a second but one of the worst seconds of John’s life, his fellow Gryffindor burnt, blazing upright. Then the flames burnt out and Moran, burnt beyond recognition, dropped to the floor. Even Jim looked a little surprised, but soon regained his composure, walking over to his fallen comrade. Behind him, Sherlock staggered with difficulty to his feet and wheeled round to Moran’s other side, keeping his wand upright with some effort.

Then they heard a unexpected sound, colder than even the night air, the sort of cold that sunk right down to the deepest depths of you, a terrible sound that would haunt John in the same way he knew it must be haunting Sherlock, the sound of the slightest, most pitiful moan of a burnt tongue through charred lips, the kind of sound that real agony makes when it is no longer able to scream.

John felt the bile building at the back of his throat but forced himself not to be sick. He couldn’t even think, beyond the fact that somehow, Moran was still alive and that the world was a crueller place than he had ever thought.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day, Sherlock.” Jim said, with such venom that John realised even he was rattled. “I’ve found a volunteer.” He pulled the locket out of his collar, clutching it tightly in his left hand, raised his wand to administer the killing blow, to rip his soul in two so that at least half could never be killed, but it was too late. There was a flash of green light and it took John a second to realise that the awful words, that the _Avada Kedavra_ , had been said by Sherlock.

If that had been all it was, it would have been okay, and for a second, all John could do was thank everything that was good for delivering a death that could only be seen as mercy. But then Sherlock collapsed, his knees giving way, and he toppled onto the sand, his left hand clutched tightly around his pocket watch, the pocket watch he had inherited from Mycroft, that always stayed in his coat. But now it was out, clutched so hard in his hand that it seemed like either the gold case or the bones of Sherlock’s fingers would break, and around the edges, it was still smoking slightly.

Jim worked it out first, of course. He always did. Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, the two genii of the class of 1970; or maybe he just believed it more readily than John did.  Either way, he began to laugh, stepped nimbly over what remained of Moran, and stood over Sherlock.

“Well, well, I’ll admit, I am a little surprised.” He said. Sherlock tried to get up, and failed. “Don’t you know it’s the height of bad manners, Sherlock? You stole my idea!” With that, he kicked Sherlock viciously, brutally in the stomach. Sherlock gasped for breath. “But look at you.” Jim laughed, composing himself. “Look at the state of you. If that’s how much it takes out of you, it’s no wonder hardly anyone’s making one. I’ll take that.”

Sherlock tried to keep hold of the pocket watch, now so precious, but it was to no avail. Jim pulled it easily from his weak fingers.

“Now then, Sherlock.” Jim said. “Let’s find out if you really are immortal.”

He raised his wand and for a moment John was certain this was it, that Sherlock was about to die, but instead, somehow, incredibly, Sherlock had managed to get a pinch of floo powder in one hand, pressed against one of the magnesium strips that he always carried with him, and he set fire to it with the tip of his wand, just before the green light from Jim’s wand reached him. A moment later he would topple out of the grate at St Mungos, and John found himself falling back into the chair in Mycroft’s study, in a quiet room in the middle of the Holmes estate, burdened with the knowledge that his friend, who had long since insisted that his immorality was made up for in John’s sense of right and wrong, had committed the most grotesque crime against nature imaginable. That was why there had been no visible injury; the cause of his weakness was all from the damage he had done to himself inside. If Sherlock Holmes had a soul, it would be in a terrible state now.

 


	13. Chapter Five Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Hogwarts. Part 3/3- Final chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, this is the final chapter, so I think it’s probably best I don’t comment on the contents too much! The one thing I will say is to repeat that I originally wrote this for Scooby2408. Which means first of all that I need to plug her profile because if you like BBC stuff, you’ll enjoy what she has there; and secondly that certain decisions about the ending were made with her tastes in mind. Personally, though, I think the ending came out a lot better than it would have done if I hadn’t… she has good taste. XD One last thing I will say is that it’s always been a tradition in stories I write for her that there’s a scene interwoven with a song. When I was a teenager I thought it was cool, now it’s a bit dorky but I still do it, haha. That scene comes somewhere in the middle of this chapter and you’ll know it when you see it. The song, however, is ‘We Can Work it Out’ by the Beatles; youtube it for the full effect. XD
> 
>  
> 
> To all those of you who have managed to read this colossal story all the way to the end, thank you very much and I hope you enjoyed it :) If you have the chance, it would be great to hear what you thought of the ending, and if you have any comments or questions about it let me know. I am prepared to defend my decisions if necessary ;) That said, please enjoy the final chapter!

 

Chapter Five Part 3/3

 

The sun was setting as John arrived back at St Mugos. He had spent several hours inside the pensieve, and, had he examined his physical needs, would probably have found he was hungry or thirsty. At that moment, however, he couldn’t care less about his physical state. The world seemed to have narrowed around him, so he couldn’t see anything but getting back to the hospital, getting back and seeing Sherlock. Not that he had any idea what he was going to say. It just didn’t seem possible. John had seen Moriarty doing horrible things, torturing his friend, using the Unforgivable Curses without hesitation even against someone he used to care about, but somehow Jim’s trespass seemed pale in comparison. Sherlock was supposed to be one of the good guys and he was certainly supposed to be smarter than this, smarter than messing around with the darkest of the dark arts, so terrible that even to name it made John’s stomach churn as his magical sense revolted. He remembered Professor Sprout, all those years before, gently explaining to his mother that magic couldn’t do everything, that death was the end to wizard and muggle alike. Sherlock had ignored this, committed the ultimate trespass, and somehow made the world darker and uglier and dirtier; he was an arrogant little boy who had flown too close to the sun, not realising he was going to drown in the sea, a man who had reached out to steal fire and so damned himself. This was just too far.

Molly was in Sherlock’s room when John arrived, she endeavouring to make conversation, he, for once, replying; though John could hear nothing from outside; presumably Mycroft’s famous anti-eavesdropping charm again. Sherlock stopped abruptly when John entered, looking at him in silent defiance, daring him to say something. It was that look that drove John over the edge. In two steps he was by Sherlock’s side and punched him hard in the face.

“John!” Molly cried, leaping to her feet in horror as John grabbed the front of Sherlock’s hospital pyjamas and pulled him up. “John, put him down!”

John only had eyes for Sherlock. “What have you done?!” He shouted, and in some corner of his brain his rational mind marvelled fearfully at his own rage. “What the hell have you done, Sherlock?!”

“I did what I had to do, John.” Sherlock replied quietly, meeting his eyes. For a moment they stared at each other and for the first time in his life, Sherlock looked away first. With the realisation that Sherlock knew what a terrible thing he had done, John’s rage melted away, leaving behind a cooling anger and a deep sadness. He let go of Sherlock, letting him fall back into the pillows, and fell into a chair himself, his head in his hands.

For a moment, no-one spoke.

“John, I…”

“Don’t speak to me, Sherlock.” John shook his head. “Don’t speak to me.”

“What’s going on?” Molly asked, nervously, before Sherlock had time to ignore John’s plea. “John, what’s wrong?”

John looked at Sherlock. “You haven’t told her.” Sherlock said nothing, looking down at his hands. John laughed slightly. “Well, lucky you, Molly; I was treated to a special premiere of the annotated memories of Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock frowned slightly at this. “Annotated?”

“You don’t mean to tell me you really do see that white writing all the time?”

“What writing?” Sherlock was clearly unaware of his own skewed worldview himself as he was looking at John like he had gone mad. At that look, John snapped.

“That’s not important! He made a horcrux, Molly! He killed Moran and made a horcrux out of it!”

There was evil in the word that made his forehead break out in a sweat. John took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to give into the weakness that was the curse of the blessing that was his magical sensitivity, not now. Even so, he didn’t wipe the sweat away. He wanted Sherlock to see it, Molly to see it and realise all the implications.

“Moran was dying!” Sherlock said harshly. “He was in agony, John, you must have seen it was a mercy to kill him!”

“And if you had _just_ killed him, it would have been fine, Sherlock! But you didn’t, did you?!”

“I…I don’t understand.” Molly almost whispered, biting her lip. “What’s a, a horcrux? What have you done, Sherlock?”

“He’s been busy making wax wings, Molly, towers to Heaven, I think there’s some fire he’s got his eye on.” John spat. Molly looked even more bewildered.

“Stop being so melodramatic, John.” Sherlock answered, keeping his voice level. “Molly, a horcrux is an item with a part of your soul stored in it. It means that even if your body dies, part of you survives.”

“What? But-”

“It’s dark magic, Molly!” John said, interrupting her. “Dark magic of the worst kind. It’s murder, for a start, you have to kill someone and do permanent damage to your soul, for a start. It’s the worst kind of evil, worse than the Unforgivable Curses, worse than anything.”

“I had to do it.” Sherlock said, his voice low and insistent. “If I hadn’t, then Jim would have-”

“You could have just killed Moran.” John said. “You didn’t have to-”

“Jim Moriarty will make a horcrux, John.” Sherlock said, without doubt or pleading or fear, just simple fact.  He was looking pale and worn out again, clearly tired from the exertion of this conversation. John had no sympathy. “If he hasn’t already, then he’ll do it today, or tomorrow, out of you or Molly or anyone else he happens not to value, which is more or less everyone but him. He’s smart, John, smarter than Voldemort, just like I’m smarter than Dumbledore, and I’m telling you, if you’re going to have an immortal James Moriarty, you are going to want an immortal Sherlock Holmes!”

John shook his head in disbelief, wondering if Sherlock ever listened to himself; if he never thought about just asking for help. Molly spoke before he could regain his voice.

“So, these horcruxes could be anything?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded. “I used a pocket watch that’s been passed down my family. Jim was planning on using a locket he had round his neck.”

“Then… if he’s made this horcrux thing… is there any way we can destroy it?” Molly asked.  John and Sherlock both looked at her in surprise. She twisted her fingers in her lap. “I don’t want Jim to die,” she said, hesitantly. “But… if it really is as bad as you say, what else can we do?”

“Fiendfyre.” Sherlock said shortly. “That or Basilisk venom. They may not even work, but those are the most magically dangerous substances I know. You would have to destroy the vessel entirely, though, and before the soul fragment could flit into anything else.”

“Then we’ll do it.” Molly said, reaching over and squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “We’ll find a way and we’ll do it.”

“When Moriarty’s is gone,” Sherlock said quietly. “We can destroy mine.”

“Won’t that hurt you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Better than having some sentience trapped here with nothing to do.”

“Well, I doubt we have anything to worry about.” John said, failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Because you don’t have your horcrux, Sherlock, _he_ does, and he’s probably destroyed it already.”

“Possibly.” Sherlock admitted.

“So it was pointless you doing this at all, wasn’t it?!”

Sherlock scowled at him, but said nothing. The lights had just gone out.

“What’s happening?” Molly asked. John was already on his feet, his wand drawn, having seen enough terrible events that day to put him on guard. Looking alarmed, Molly followed suit.

“My wand, John.” Sherlock said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, in spite of the charm around his room. “You put it back in my coat.”

“Ssh.” John said, knowing that as things stood, Sherlock was still too weak to be any use in a fight. Sherlock probably knew it too, or he would have gone for the wand himself, if he had bothered to use one at all. “Just lie there, keep still and be quiet.”

For once, Sherlock did as he was told, Molly and John standing guard, wands outstretched, on either side of the foot of his bed. Just as it began to occur to John that maybe this simply was just a problem with the lights, curses began to fly through the door. John only just managed to duck beneath a pulse of red light that he imagined would have either stunned or disarmed him, and sent one back, firing blindly, but missing each of the three hooded figures that stood outside the room.

“John!” Sherlock said, stumbling out of bed when he saw his friend drop to the floor. John grabbed him and forced him down, roughly, as another curse passed over their heads.

“ _Aguamenti_!” Molly cried, sending a wave washing over the corridor, pushing the three men back. She kept the water going, looking over her shoulder as she did so. “John! John, Sherlock, are you alright?!”

“Aguamenti?!” Sherlock said, incredulously. “Couldn’t you have chosen something a bit more useful?!” He had dragged his coat out of the locker and was hastily pulling it on, drawing his wand out of the pocket.

“It was all I could think of!” Molly wailed. Her spell was starting to weaken and the Death Eaters were able to move forward against the plume of water.

“ _Aguamenti_!” John said hastily, adding his own efforts to the water wall; but it wouldn’t hold them long. “We need to move into open ground, we’re sitting ducks here.” Forgetting his anger, he pulled Sherlock’s arm around his neck and grabbed him around the waist, trying to keep his wand steady. “When I say, head for the back stairs.”

“A-alright.”

“Now!”

They ran out of the room, ending the charm as they turned. Sherlock, limping along as best he could, leaning heavily on John and probably hating every second, still managed to transfigure the water into ice, so that they gained a few seconds on their pursuers, who slipped and fell heavily.  They made it to the end of the floor where there was a little-used service stairwell, used only by staff and only then if they had something against the lifts that ran to every floor. This too was in darkness, and without any windows to the outside, was almost pitch black as they ran down the twists and turns.

“ _Lumos!”_ John managed to find spare breath to get the spell out and a ball of light blossomed from his wand.

“ _Nox_!” Sherlock said furiously, putting it out again immediately. “No, John, you’ll give away our position!”

“They already know where we are, Sherlock!”

“We need to apparate, John, now!”

John laughed. “Do you have any idea how weak you are, Sherlock?! It’ll kill you!”

“Apparate, John!”

“I told you, no!”

“They’re coming!” Molly said, as there was the clang of more feet, higher behind them on the metal staircase. John swore and shot a stunning spell upwards over Molly’s shoulder, but it rebounded off the stairs above, showering them in sparks.

“John, don’t be an idiot!” Sherlock snapped. “You’ll never get a clear shot while we’re moving.”

“At least they won’t either.”

“Only as long as they’re moving too.” Sherlock said grimly, just as the footsteps above ominously stopped. A moment later they were forced to duck below the bannister as more shots came down from above. The Death Eaters had figured out to shoot down the diagonal and were hitting the wall behind where John and the others were crouching. If they stood, or moved, they would be right in the firing line.

“We need to keep moving.” Sherlock said grimly. “Sooner or later they’ll start with the killing curses.”

“Makes no difference.” John answered. “Even if somehow we get outside, they’ll catch us up.” He didn’t say that this was because Sherlock was clearly tiring, his breath ragged even as he tried to control it. He shouldn’t even have been out of bed and now they had stopped, John knew it would be with difficulty that he got going again.

“We need to get onto open ground.” Sherlock said. “We can fight them if we get out.”

“We won’t make it.”

“I’ll hold them off, so you two go!” Molly said, making to get up.

“Molly, no!” John said, as the barrage of curses breaking into the wall behind them finally ceased and the feet started again. The Death Eaters were two floors above them. It wouldn’t take them a moment to reach their prey. “If anyone is staying, it’s me.”

“Look at him, John!” Molly said, gesturing at Sherlock. “He needs a doctor! And anyway, I’m not strong enough to carry him.”

“Molly.” Sherlock growled, but John hesitated. What she said was true. Besides, it was Sherlock they really wanted. If she could just hold them off long enough for John to get Sherlock outside, the Death Eaters would follow. Unable to believe himself, John nodded.

Molly smiled shakily and turned to go, but this time it was Sherlock that stopped her, reaching past John and grabbing her hand. Molly looked at him defiantly.

“There’s no _time,_ Sherlock!” She snapped, trying to pull away.

“Molly Hooper,” He said quietly. “Gryffindor.” Then, to everyone’s surprise, he kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Take care.”

Molly looked at him in shock. Then grinning hugely, she even managed a retort. “I’ve always been a Gryffindor, Sherlock.” She said, and with that got to her feet and charged back upstairs to meet the attackers head on, calling out another spell. There was no time to worry about her, no time for delicacy. John grabbed hold of Sherlock again and began hauling him downstairs, trying to make him go just a little faster.

“What was that just now?” He asked, grinning himself, fear mixing with excitement.

“What was what?” Sherlock asked, with effort, looking down at his feet to make sure they went where he wanted.

“That! Was that a little moment just now?”

“Now is hardly the time, John!”

John laughed, but said nothing more. Somehow, he couldn’t worry about Molly any more. There was no way she would let herself die after finally getting a kiss from Sherlock Holmes, a boy whom, in spite of everything in between, she had had a crush on since she was eleven years old.

They had reached the fire exit at the bottom of the stairwell now, and John pushed his way out; finding the door was concealed in the wall of the bottom floor of a muggle multi-storey carpark. There were one or two cars, but otherwise it was thankfully empty, not even a parking warden in sight, and no security cameras; the guards probably subtly persuaded that the basement floor didn’t need surveillance. John pulled Sherlock half way across the car park, both of them looking back over their shoulders. Still no Molly.

“We need to wait for her!” Sherlock said. His breath was now catching so badly that he couldn’t hold back the coughs, wracking his bruised and battered frame, though his wand arm barely trembled. Nevertheless, John nodded, standing there in wait of their attackers. They wouldn’t go without Molly, but she needed to bring the fight out here.

The seconds ticked past and John began to pray that she hadn’t done anything stupid; but it was one of the Death Eaters that appeared first, the curse already on his lips while John was still distracted, looking over his shoulder for Molly. He didn’t see her. It was his magical sense that alerted him to the danger, suddenly flaring up, a jarring pain in his knee; and time seemed to slow as he looked at the Death Eater, so that he saw the green light issuing forth out of the wand before his ears picked up on the deadly words. At first his thought was simply to get out of the way, throwing himself and Sherlock to the side, but his next thought was escape, and somehow- he would never know how he managed to do it- he turned them in the air and reached out to the first safe place he instinctually thought of, and they disappeared, leaving only a sharp crack and Molly Hooper behind them.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

He had been worried that Sherlock wouldn’t survive apparating, and his fears were somewhat justified. They appeared in the lounge, and Sherlock’s knees immediately gave way, staying upright only because of John’s grip on him, but even so, he retched and violently threw up into the grate. John felt mild relief that he had kept it off the carpets as he tried to steady him, not sure what to do other than letting Sherlock empty it out, but between the coughing and the vomiting at this rate his friend was going to suffocate.

“Easy there, mate.” He muttered, rubbing Sherlock’s back and adjusting his position slightly to try and open up his airways a bit more. Thankfully the vomiting seemed to have finished and after a few empty retches, Sherlock was able to straighten up slightly, sucking in deep, gasping breaths.  John manoeuvred him into a chair as Sherlock looked around in confusion. John subtly took his pulse. To his relief, it was still strong, but it was fluttering irregularly, at the point of giving out. Wishing he had some of the medicinal potions from work, he took out his wand and tapped it on Sherlock’s palm, gently administering a slight tranquillising spell, used to calm patients down. Sherlock sighed in relief and his breathing eased just slightly.

“John?” A voice said in the doorway, sounding almost frightened, though not so alarmed she hadn’t waited for a polite opportunity to speak.

“Hello, mom.” He said weakly, no idea how to begin explaining this one. He wasn’t even sure why he had brought them here; he didn’t think he’d consciously thought about it. He had just reached out for somewhere safe. “You remember Sherlock?”

“Of course I do.” His mother said, frowning, coming over to him. She squeezed Sherlock’s hand with all the motherly affection she had ever shown him. “It’s been far too long, young man. But look at you, Sherlock. What have you been doing to yourself?”

She was right. It was hard to tell how much of the physical weakness was due to the making of the horcrux and how much to the exhaustion and fatigue of days hiding in a cave and years travelling, how much to the torture of the Cruciatus curse, how much to the subsequent running and fighting. Even so, John suspected the horcrux was having the more permanent effect. Sherlock’s cheeks were still hollow and sunken, his face still chalk white, grey shadows under his eyes, and days of the best care in hospital had made no difference. Perhaps the soul was like blood, and when there wasn’t enough of it, the body would struggle.

“You shouldn’t have brought us here, John.” Sherlock said, the moment he had recovered enough to speak. “You’re marked, they’ll follow you.”

“That’s why I’m not staying.” John replied. “I’m going back to the hospital to get Molly. You stay here and rest. Mom will take care of you.”

“What’s going on?” His mother demanded, baffled.

“Mom, we’re just in… a little trouble.” John said, quietly. “It’ll be fine, I just… I just need you to let Sherlock rest here for a few days. Take care of him.”

His mother must have heard some note of finality in his voice because she took his arm and squeezed tightly. “John, what is it? Where are you going?”

While they were talking, Sherlock had struggled to his feet. “I’m coming with you.” He announced. “If you don’t apparate with me, I’ll have to do it myself.”

“Sherlock! You can’t, you won’t make it.”

“I’m coming.”

“Then what was the point of us getting you out?!” John demanded, furious. “This isn’t about brains any more, Sherlock! You’re weak right now and I’m sorry if you can’t deal with that, but you’ll be in the way! I’m going, you’re staying, that’s all there is to it!”

“I am so sick of Gryffindors!”  Sherlock said, enraged. “I only let Molly stay behind so we could be rid of her!”

“…what?”

“It’s not going to get any safer from here, John.” Sherlock said, supporting himself on the wall. “I was fairly confident she could hold those three goons off, but if we escape them they’ll just send someone stronger after me. We need to disappear, where she can’t find us.” He straightened up again, in spite of the effort it clearly took him. “But something went wrong. She should have just stunned them and followed us. We need to go back and make sure she’s alright.”

“I’m going back, you’re staying here.” John said, pushing him into a chair. “And then I’m bringing her back here.”

“John, stop putting her in danger!”

“She’s already in danger, Sherlock, we’re all in danger, and it seems like you’re in the most danger of all!”

“Jim has obviously made his report to the Dark Lord.” Sherlock said. “I’m guessing he doesn’t like having a rival for immortality.”

“Exactly. We’re your friends, Sherlock, we’re going to help you whether you like it or not. This time it’s a team game.”

Sherlock naturally recognised his brother’s words immediately and scowled, but before he could say anything, the doorbell rang.

“Goodness.” John’s mother said. “I wonder who that could be, at a time like this…” She stepped out into the hall.

“Don’t open it!” John and Sherlock shouted, startling her, coming out into the hall, wands at the ready.

“What’s going on, John?” His mother asked again. The doorbell rang again. “They aren’t going away. It might be important.”

“It’s Molly.” Sherlock said, sounding considerably surprised.

“How do you know?” John asked.

“Look at the silhouette in the glass.” Sherlock said, nodding at the frosted panel. “It’s her size, her build; her second and a half pressure on the bell, her anxiety ringing twice so close together, and she’s got her back to the door, she’s wary of there being someone behind her.” So saying, he pulled the door open.

Naturally, Sherlock was correct as always and Molly came in and after the initial confusion of greetings and half-explanations, John had her sitting down in the kitchen, tending to a gash on her arm.

“This might feel a little strange, alright?” He said, preparing the end of his wand. He had already numbed her arm, but it still wouldn’t be a pleasant sensation as he melted her skin back together. She turned her head away, refusing to watch, but a moment later, apart from a line of scarring, there was no sign of the wound. “That’s it, you’re all done.” He said, going to wash his hands off at the sink.

“What happened, Molly?” Sherlock said.

“I couldn’t hit them at all.” Molly said sheepishly. “I kept missing. So I used the Diffindio charm and pulled the stairs down on top of them, but one got out of the way in time and he used it on me and then he ran past after you two.” She suddenly covered her mouth. “Oh, no, I completely destroyed the stairs! Do you think they’ll fire me?!”

“I think there were mitigating circumstances, Molly.” John said. “How did you know we were here?”

“I just couldn’t think of anywhere else you’d go when you were in trouble.” Molly answered, smiling as she accepted a cup of tea off John’s mother. Mrs Hudson sat down at the table and looked at them all severely.

“Now nobody’s bleeding.” She said. “Somebody needs to tell me what’s going on.”

“We need to protect the house.” Sherlock said, ignoring her. “We need to create a perimeter. John, the incantation you need to do is ‘protego maxima’. Molly, do ‘Repello inimicum’. I’ll do ‘fianto duri’. Mycroft saw them using them out in Greece, he said in his last report that the three spells together make a nearly impregnable barrier. Nothing and no-one will be able to get in.”

“Wait,” John said. “There’s Dean and Harry.” He turned to his mom. “Where are they, anyway?”

“Gone.” His mother said faintly. She had turned rather pale.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“It was Harriet.” His mother said. “She told us… last week, she had a… a feeling, she said it was her magic. She was insisting something bad was going to happen and you needed us to leave.” John reached over and took her hand, alarmed at seeing his mother was close to tears. “She kept saying, ‘John needs us to go, mom’. She told me she could feel danger coming… she was so upset…”

“Where is she now?” Sherlock demanded. “You didn’t believe her, did you?”

“Of course I did.” Mrs Hudson snapped. “How could I not believe her after years of John being able to tell me who was coming to the door before they turned the corner of the street? No, we told the school Dean’s mother was severely ill and sent the two of them off down to Devon.”

“You should have gone too.” John said, internally marvelling at his sister’s magic, already so keenly developed. At least she was safe.

“Oh, John.” She said crossly. “How could I, when she said you were going to be in danger here? When you came this afternoon, I almost hoped…” She broke off and pulled John close, hugging him tightly.

“We need to protect the house.” Sherlock said again, and went out. Molly followed and, a moment later, John went out to join them. They went around the house, front and back, casting the charms, barricading themselves in. After that, they went inside, Molly helped Sherlock upstairs to the guest room- at Mrs Hudson’s insistence, after being alarmed by his exhaustion after doing the magic- and John went into the lounge with his mother to answer all the awkward questions. This time he told her everything.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

That night and the following day they had peace, or at least as much peace as it was possible for them to have when they were just waiting for something to happen, knowing that something would. John felt the dirtiness in his blood more acutely than ever. If the Death Eaters knew exactly where they were, why hadn’t they attacked yet? Sherlock’s only theory was that Voldemort had already destroyed his horcrux and that something else had happened to take them off the top of the priority list, but that didn’t sit right with John. He said nothing, as he had no rational cause for his feeling, but he sat quietly, never letting his guard down, trying to persuade Sherlock to rest, but Sherlock, like the rest of them, was unable to sit still and he paced endlessly around the house, waiting for something to happen or some course of action to open up. Finally, as the sun set began their second night in hiding, something did.

John spotted it from the window of his old bedroom. It was a small roll of scrap parchment, wedged in between the front fence posts, just outside of the barrier. There was no-one in sight, but John still took Sherlock with him when he went outside. They lowered the barrier and Sherlock snatched the note with something like eagerness, scrabbling to unroll it even as John began to put the barrier back up.

“I would leave that, John.” Sherlock said. “We’re going to need to leave.”

“Why, what does it say?” John asked. Sherlock handed the note over without a word, heading back inside the house.

 _Hello Sherley_ , it said, and the nickname confirmed what the writing had already told John, that this was a note from Jim. He read on.

_I tried to call, but it seems like you weren’t in. I’m just going to hang out and wait at your house for a while. Why don’t you and John and Molly come and play?_

_Love and kisses,_

_Jim xx_

“We’re not going, are we?” John asked, although he already knew the answer. “This is obviously a trap, Sherlock, he even pretty much says it’s a trap.”

“I’m going.” Sherlock nodded. “Are you?”

“If you’re going, I’m going.” John said, watching Sherlock pull on his coat and scarf as if they were just going out for a stroll. “Are we telling Molly?”

“I think she’s proven herself equal to the task, don’t you?” Sherlock replied. “Anyway, she’s been listening through the living room door. I don’t think we could stop her if we tried.”

Looking slightly shame-faced, Molly stepped out to join them, reading the note for herself. Without another word, the three of them got ready and walked out into the street, up the hill, towards the imposing house at the top.

The tall iron gates were open when they arrived, considerately left unlocked. The front door, too, was left ajar, just in case they had any illusions left of being able to make a surprise attack. Wands drawn, Sherlock went first, leading them into the dark entrance hall of his childhood home.

At first, nothing seemed amiss. The dominating stone fireplace still burnt brightly, filling the large lobby with warmth and something of an orange glow, but apart from the crackle of wood there seemed to be no sound, no movement, anywhere in the house. The hair on John’s neck was standing on end and didn’t seem to be getting ready to flatten out any time soon.

Suddenly, there was music; magically amplified to be almost deafening, made to seem as if it was coming from all directions at once.

_“Try to see it my way, do I have to keep on talking till I can’t go on…?”_

John lowered his hands slowly from his ears, calming down from his startled jump. He looked around.

“Where is that coming from?” He asked, having to shout over the music.

_“While you see it your way, run the risk of knowing that our love may soon be gone…”_

“It’s the Beatles.” Molly said. “This was our song, when we argued.” She was chewing her lip.

_“We can work it out, we can work it out…”_

“Ignore it.” Sherlock said grimly, grabbing her wrist and leading her on. “He’s just trying to psyche us out. He’s hiding somewhere in here. We need to find him. Let’s split up.”

“No.” John said. “We stick together.”

For once, Sherlock didn’t answer, and they began to check the doors leading off the hall one by one.

_“Life is very short, and there’s no time for fussing and fighting my friend…”_

_If only that were true_ , John thought grimly as they descended the stairs down to the kitchen. Jim seemed to be finding plenty of time for both, and they had just found him.

Jim was sitting at the kitchen table, his back to the stairs, his record player on the table before him.

“Sssh.” He said, leaning his head back so he could see them behind him. “This is the best part.”

_“I have always thought that it’s a crime… so I will ask you once again.”_

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming.” Jim said, standing up and spreading his hands wide in welcome. “It’s really too kind of you. You shouldn’t have.”

“I never refuse an invitation to my own house.” Sherlock answered, pointing his wand steadily at their old friend, as did John. Only Molly’s arm wavered slightly, but he hadn’t seen what Moriarty had done to Sherlock, to Moran.

“Ooh,” Jim said, mockingly, raising his hands defensively. “No need for that. You know who let me in here? Your old house elf. Twitchy, is it? She was waiting here for you, John, to take her to see Master Sherlock at the hospital.” He covered his mouth. “Oops, did you forget?”

“Shut up, Moriarty.”

Jim threw back his head and laughed. “Moriarty now, is it, Doctor Watson? I’m _so_ intimidated.” He looked over at Molly. “Good golly Miss Molly, still looking gorgeous. How did you like my little love letter on your wall?”

Molly flushed but said nothing, her wand now holding steady.

“Call me.” Jim said, reaching into his pocket for his wand. He was fast, too fast for John, whose attempt at disarming him was blocked by a shielding charm, but not quick enough for Sherlock, who had started ugly with the Diffindio charm, leaving Jim bleeding from the forehead. Jim felt the cut, looking at his fingertips when they came away red. Then he scowled at them, furious, and the fight really began.

The next minutes were all confusion of curses and hexes flying in all directions, to the point where John could no longer keep track of which spells were his own, let alone anyone else’s. There was no time to take note of the progress of the battle, only to defend, attack, defend again. All the while the record was still playing, and later, when he tried to pin down the memories, certain flashes of action, moments of memory, had stuck to the words.

_“Try to see it my way…”_

The record continued, as Sherlock pushed Molly and John ahead of him back up the stairs after someone had attacked with fire, which had caught, and spread.

_“Only time will tell if I am right or I am wrong…”_

John had been disarmed by Molly’s spell gone awry, but Jim was still raising his arm to attack her. John jumped on his back, knocking him over, and they wrestled the old fashioned way, John trying to wrench Jim’s wand out of his grip.

_“While you see it your way, there’s a chance that we might fall apart before too long…”_

Sherlock had both John’s wand and his own. They were both pointing at Jim. Jim looked up at him, and in that split second of distraction, John got Jim’s wand away from him, breaking away from him and standing up, pointing the wand down at him. He reached his hand out for his wand. Sherlock didn’t give it back. Molly came over to them, a bruise blossoming over one eye from the exchange in the kitchen, but otherwise unhurt. Sherlock looked down at Jim. John didn’t like the look of murder in his eyes.

 _“We can work it out…”_ The record was warping in the heat, the words becoming stretched and garbled. Any second now, it would melt entirely.

“Sherlock.” John said, worried, still holding out his hand for his wand.

“Go on.” Jim said, grinning as he knelt on the floor, looking directly at Sherlock. “Go on. I dare you.”

“Sherlock!” John said, urgently. Too late.

 _“Crucio._ ” Sherlock spat, his teeth clenched in anger, moving both wands at once. Jim grunted as the wind was knocked out of him, then spasmed in pain, screaming until he ran out of air, then laughing manically, hysterically.

 _“We can work it out…”_ The record span to a stop. It had survived to the end of the track. Jim was quivering, still laughing awfully on the floor. John, furious, snatched his wand back from Sherlock.

“What are you doing?!” He shouted. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“What he deserves.” Sherlock said, coldly.

“You’re better than this, Sherlock.” Molly said, quietly.

“Oh, no, he’s not.” Jim laughed, breathless. “He’s as bad as I am. Worse. I’m not the one who made a horcrux.”

“Be quiet!” Sherlock took a step forward, holding his wand to Moriarty’s face. Jim didn’t flinch, looking straight up into Sherlock’s eyes as he continued.

“I opened it, you know, Sherley. The pocket watch. And I could hear it. Your soul. And it was screaming and screaming and screaming…” There was an awful fascination in his eyes. “Do you hear that, all the time? Is it always there, in the back of your mind? Is that what immortality cost you? Is that what you call living? I really want to know.”

“Stop it!” Sherlock shouted and for a moment, John thought he was going to use the Cruciatus curse again. He looked as if he wanted to, but then they were interrupted.

There was a sharp crack, and more people appeared in the entrance hall. Three men were hooded and cloaked, the disguise of the Death Eaters, but the fourth wore no disguise. It was a man, or just about a man, impossible to age, with black hair that had been carefully slicked back, dead eyes, dead skin, features that seemed ill defined, like they blurred when you looked at them. John’s leg was killing him, the bile was rising in his throat, and every magical instinct was telling him that they were face to face with Voldemort at last.

Sherlock slowly stepped back, letting Jim to his feet. Even he knew this was trouble.

“Problems, Moriarty?” Voldemort’s voice was surprisingly soft and mild. Like Jim’s, John thought; here was another man who, back in the day, could have talked anyone into anything, before the evil of his magic had corrupted him so much as to be perceptible to all.

“Nothing unmanageable, Master. This is the boy.”

“The boy who made the horcrux.” Voldemort said with interest. “Give it to me.”

Sherlock glanced sideways at Jim, who smirked. Sherlock looked in front of him again, answering carefully. “Excuse me if I pass.”

“Then we will kill you and take it from you. Moriarty, do the honours.”

“He doesn’t have it, my Lord.” Moriarty answered, sounding perfectly truthful because, on that front, at least, he was being so. “He’s hidden it. We need to find out where.”

“Very well.” Voldemort said. “Then kill the other one.”

By the time John registered that ‘the other one’ was not Molly as he had initially feared, but was, in fact, him, it was too late. Moriarty had continued with the theme of their battle, but rather than casting Diffindio, which would only cut, he chose Defodio. The gouging spell. He intended to rip John’s heart out for the entertainment of his master.

John had his wand ready, though he didn’t know what he had been planning on doing. He found himself, however, being knocked to the floor. Sherlock had pushed him to the ground, out of the way. John felt relief for less than a second, then he felt the blood soaking through the back of Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock coughed in pain, coughing up more blood, John realised, when it sprayed against his cheek. He struggled out from underneath his friend, trying to heal the wound, but it didn’t work. None of the spells from his training worked.

“There’s no point, John.” Sherlock said, his voice strained. “You can’t fix me like that.”

“What have you done?!” John demanded of Moriarty. “What did you do to that spell?! Tell me!”

Moriarty held his hands up. “Don’t look at me.” He said innocently. “It’s Mr Horcrux’s fault over there. He’s the one that poisoned his soul.”

“It’s true.” Sherlock said, panting for breath. “After… such evil magic… the body rejects… the good.”

“No!” John said, shaking his head. “No, no, Sherlock. I used healing magic on you, yesterday, at the house, I-”

“You thought you did.” Sherlock murmured. His voice was getting weaker. He was still bleeding heavily, making a pool on the floor now that was soaking into the knees of John’s trousers.

“Enough!” Voldemort thundered. “Moriarty, find out where the horcrux is! Now!”

Before John could get to his feet or even raise his wand, Moriarty had grabbed Molly and had pulled her close to him, his arm wrapped tightly around her neck, his wand to her cheek. Molly struggled, but it was useless.

“You’re dying, Sherley.” Jim said. “I’m really sorry, but it’s true. So it doesn’t matter what I do to you. But I could still explode this pretty little head.” He kissed her cheek, then her ear. Molly looked at him, frightened but unsure.

“Let her go!” John shouted, as Molly pulled hard, trying to get away. Jim ignored them both.

“Tell us, Sherlock.” Jim laughed. “Tell us where the horcrux is or little Miss Molly Hufflepuff Hooper gets it.”

“You’re insane.” John spat, turning to look at Voldemort. “I don’t know why you’re coming to us, when he’s the one who-!”

“Molly Hooper.” Sherlock interrupted, his voice rasping. “Is a Gryffindor.” John looked down at him. Sherlock’s whole arm was trembling with the effort, but his wand was raised and ready. _“Flipendo_.” He said. He was weak and so was his spell, but it was enough, just enough, to knock Jim over. Molly staggered forward, free of him, and John needed no more prompting. He pulled Sherlock onto his back and ran, ran the only way he could go, upstairs. Molly was right behind them.  Sadly, so were Jim and the Death Eaters, on a prompting from their master.

“We need to lock ourselves in somewhere!” John said. They couldn’t apparate now, not with Sherlock already bleeding to death.

“John, it’s fine…” Sherlock said, weakly.

“Shut up, Sherlock!” John answered, kicking open the door to Mycroft’s study. He could almost hear the older man wincing from the afterlife, but he had greater concerns than authentic fourteenth century oak at the moment.

“John, you don’t understand.” Sherlock tried again, so breathless now his voice was like leaves in the wind.

“Quiet.” John said, lying him down on the study floor, getting Molly to lock the door and then help him remove their friend’s soiled coat. “I’m saving you, Sherlock, I’ll damn well cauterise it if I have to.”

“John.” Molly said, tentatively. “I think you should…”

“Not now, Molly.” John said, tersely, going and lighting the fire. Even as he did so, he knew, he knew the fire wouldn’t be hot enough in time, and even if it was, Sherlock was probably already too weak to survive the pain of cauterisation. It was an ignoble end for a detective who had barely begun his work.

 _“Avada Kedarva!”_ It was Jim’s voice, in the hall outside. There were some heavy thuds. John looked up, confused, but before he could process what was happening, the door was blasted into pieces and Jim rushed in.

“What are you doing?!” He shouted. “Get out of here! Now! Go!”

“What?”

“Out of here!” Jim said, grabbing John by the elbow, pulling both him and Sherlock over to Molly. “He’s going to kill you, John, and he’s not going to do it quickly!”

“Why are you doing this?” John asked.

“Molly, for goodness’ sake, go!”

Molly suddenly snapped out of her shock and reached with shaking hands into her pocket. John just had time to see a glance of something gold, to hear a howl of rage as Voldemort discovered the bodies of his followers out in the hall, then the world twisted, rolling up into a tunnel, and all he could do was hold on tightly to Sherlock as they were pulled through it.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

They were back in the muggle car park, outside the ruined service entrance to St Mungos, though the car park itself showed no signs of the struggle that had taken place there. It was almost like there was nothing wrong in the world; except that Sherlock Holmes was bleeding to death in the middle of one of the spaces. No time to worry about why Jim had let them get away. Hardly enough time for anything.

“Oh, no.” John said, rolling Sherlock onto his side, applying pressure, trying again with his wand to stop the bleeding. “No, no, no. Come on, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry…” Sherlock said, gasping. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry when you’re dying, it doesn’t count.” John answered. “Say it when you’re recovered, alright?”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock insisted again, looking at Molly this time. “Molly. I’m sorry.” His eyes sagged shut at last. He was going.

Molly was still clutching what John assumed was the portkey in her hand. He couldn’t see what it was from where he was, just something circular and golden clutched tightly in her hand.

“Jim put this in my pocket when he kissed me.” She said, trying not to sob. She slowly let her hand fall open. “He said it was a portkey, but it’s your soul, isn’t it, Sherlock? It’s your horcrux.” The tears started to flow. “I can hear you screaming inside it. Oh, Sherlock…”

John could feel it now, had found the explanation for the crawling, buzzing pain, the swarm of insects pounding against the inside of his skull. But it didn’t matter, not now. “Can we fix him?” He demanded. “Molly, can we put his soul back together?!”

“I… I don’t know.” Molly said, but opened the pocket watch, laying it face down over Sherlock’s chest. Nothing happened.

“Come on, Sherlock!” John said, desperate now. “You said you were sorry, didn’t you?! So put it right! Sherlock, come on!”

 “Please.” Molly begged, her tears unrestrained now. “Please, Sherlock.”

The pocket watch was beginning to steam again. Then, suddenly, there was an audible crack as the ornate back plate snapped, then the screech of clockwork breaking apart. The whole watch was glowing white hot now, and melted. The gold liquid was far brighter than it had been as a solid, brighter than anything John had ever seen. It glowed, and in its light, John had the sudden feeling everything was going to be alright.

Then the light faded and Sherlock began to scream, in agony, worse than he had been when Jim had been torturing him; but John ignored it, setting to work on repairing the gouge that had been torn from his back. This time the magic took. He wasn’t worried about the screaming. It just hurt to have your soul put back together. When Sherlock finally stopped screaming and sank back unconscious into a pool of his own blood, his pulse was still beating strong and regular, and, in spite of the signs of tiredness, he looked healthier than he had for a long time.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

“I’m leaving. Today.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I’m _fine_ , John.”

“I’m the doctor, Sherlock, and you’re staying another two weeks.” John said firmly, pulling the curtains across the window to the room so Sherlock wouldn’t see the smile playing on his lips. After the double healing of body and soul, Sherlock had been in something of a coma for several days, and then woke up in such a delirious state that they had kept him magically asleep for several days more. It had been a week since he had been brought out of it, and now Sherlock was as strong as ever, but he didn’t know that. He was climbing the walls to be released, but John thought some quiet time relaxing would do him some good. It was not, of course, in any way a petty revenge for the trouble and worry Sherlock had put them through. Not at all.

Sherlock huffed and scowled, but clearly decided to try again later, still on his best behaviour. John sat down next to his bed.

“How’s the scar?” He asked.

“Back or front?” Sherlock returned, although in truth the one at the front was less of a scar then a shiny patch of skin, where he had melded with his priceless and ill-used family heirloom. “Either way, both are fine.”

“No pain?”

“None.”

John nodded, accepting it, though he suspected Sherlock wouldn’t tell him if it was hurting.

“So.” He said. “Why did he do it?”

“Who?” Sherlock asked, but he was feigning ignorance and they both knew it.

“Jim.” John said. “Why did he stop trying to kill us and save us instead?”

“He wants to kill us himself.” Sherlock shrugged. “He was only ever play acting the evil minion, you know. He wasn’t going to let Voldemort ruin his fun. You say no attempt was made while I was unconscious?”

“No.” John answered. “It’s all been quiet.”

“Then I think we can deduce what happened.” Sherlock said. “Voldemort wouldn’t take kindly to rebellious subordinates. Jim may have escaped, in which case he’ll have to go into hiding, but more likely, he was killed then and there. Either way, we don’t need to worry about him anymore.”

                John shook his head. “You’re wrong.” He said.

                “About what?” Sherlock frowned.

                “I don’t think Jim ever wanted to kill us, not deep down, not when it came right down to it.” John said, folding his arms.

                Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “For someone who didn’t want to kill us, John, he did quite a good impression of it.”

                “I don’t think so. After all, he didn’t destroy your horcrux. He used the torture spell on the beach so you could get out of the body bind. And he left Molly a warning that she was going to be targeted on her wall.”

                “A warning?” Sherlock repeated, incredulous.

                “Yes.” John said. “I think it was a warning, not a threat. He was just… you knew how obsessed with the idea of immortality he was. How much he wanted it. But I think that horcrux of yours put him off, or maybe… no, I think he’d gone off the idea a long time ago. I think he was just a stupid kid who didn’t know what he was getting involved in, and then found himself up to the neck in it and with no way out; and, being Jim, he couldn’t admit he was wrong, not even to himself, so he just carried on. You would have been exactly the same, Sherlock.”

                “I would not.” Sherlock said, offended.

                “Yes you would, because you’re both idiots.”

                “Jim tried to kill me.” Sherlock said, angrily. “More than once, John. Do you seriously believe that he was doing it just so he didn’t have to accept he’d make a mistake?”

                “You have to admit,” John said. “It sounds like him. Anyway, he didn’t kill you, did he? Because underneath it all, he didn’t want to, not really.”

Sherlock rolled over in disgust, turning his back to John. “I’m not arguing with you,” he informed him. “Not because you’re right, but because you will refuse to be convinced otherwise. You always insist on seeing the good in people, John.” He made it sound like this was the worst quality in the world.

                “If I didn’t,” John replied. “I wouldn’t be here.” Sherlock said nothing, so John sighed and changed the subject. “What about Voldemort? Why hasn’t he come after us?”

                “I don’t have a horcrux anymore.” Sherlock said. “He’ll save killing us for when he has some free time to torture us at his leisure.”

                “Right.” John said. “Good. Great. So… what are you going to do now?”

                “Another two weeks in hospital, apparently.”

                “You know what I mean. Going to join up with the Order at last? The Aurors?”

                Sherlock shrugged. “I’ll do what needs doing.” He said, and at John’s look, added hastily, “Within reason. And you?”

                “I’ve signed up for a secondment to the Aurors.” John said, nodding his determination. “This is a war; they’re going to need medics on hand. Seeing as Voldemort could find me anywhere, I may as well face him head on.”

                “Ever the Gryffindor.” Sherlock  sighed, rolling his eyes. “Well then, John, good luck.”

                “You too, Sherlock.”

                They shook hands on it. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.

 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

_1 st November, 1981_

                John woke up slowly, unsure whether the cause of his awakening was the growing commotion outside, or the warm feeling of peace inside him. For the first time in years, his heart felt light; and he realised for the first time in a long, long time his magical sense was completely silent, not a peep out of it. Something was different, the world was somehow better, brighter, than it had been the day before.

                There really was a lot of noise outside now, the hubbub of conversation, though it was barely six in the morning. John went to the door of the rooms he had been allowed to maintain in the hospital accommodation, stepping out into their common area to find out what was going on.

                “John, old boy!” One of his colleagues called. “How about champagne?!”

                “At six in the morning?” John asked, unable to stop himself from smiling. “What’s going on?”

                “Haven’t you heard, old chap? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead! Killed last night! The Potters’ little lad, the killing curse rebounded off him and killed the Dark Lord! It’s over! The Dark Lord is dead!”

                His words raised a cheer among the assembled staff, and John felt his grin grow wider. After all this time, after everything he had had to see and do, it was finally over. He could feel the truth of it. Voldemort was gone.

                “In that case,” He said. “I think I’d better have that champagne!” This was met with another roar of approval.

                By the time the morning delivery of _The Daily Prophet_ arrived, most of the staff were at least a little drunk, but it was alright, because so were most of the patients. No-one was worried about being sick that day, no-one was going to die, the world was free. Most of the story was known ahead of the paper, about James and Lilly Potter’s sacrifice; a service of memory and thanksgiving was arranged at the hospital for that afternoon. In the meantime, John figured that the Aurors could spare him for a day and, taking a copy of the _Prophet_ , headed for Baker Street, deciding to call in for Molly en route. He stopped in at the newsagents on the bottom of her road, looking for some chocolates for her. He wanted to celebrate in style.

                “Your lot seem happy today.” The aging owner remarked, when John took his purchase up to the till.

                “Yes, well, the war-” John finally caught up with what the man had said and blanched. “M-my lot?”

                “Wizards.” The man said, gruffly. “I’m not blind.”

                John laughed. “We are happy.” He said. “An evil man has died.”

                “Hmm.” The shop keeper answered. “Then you’d better take another box, free of charge.”

                John accepted and left, going back outside. There were hundreds of owls, flying around in broad day light; someone was celebrating with shooting stars. The Ministry would be fining people, but who cared? John felt like laughing, so he did. Later he would write to Harriet at the school and tell her how Hogwarts, the wizarding world would be safe for her now. But first, Molly.

                She was still at home when he found her, but she had heard the news, and they embraced giddily, conversing excitedly, until Molly was summoned by her wizard neighbours and they arranged to meet later on; John going on ahead to Sherlock’s.

                Sherlock wasn’t at home when John arrived, but John hadn’t really expected him to be.  Twitchy let him in to wait, and John gave her the other box of chocolate to commemorate the occasion, which moved her so much she cried and expressed her gratitude again and again, along with her hope that Master Sherlock would stay out of trouble now the Dark Lord was gone. John found this unlikely, but didn’t have the heart to tell her so. He didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, Sherlock got home; the only wizard in the country wearing a frown.

                “John.” He said, naturally not at all surprised to see his friend there as he had deduced his presence from a scuff of dirt on the outer steps. Sherlock threw his coat and scarf down. He was still wearing the new coat Molly had bought him the Christmas after all the trouble with Jim. John hadn’t thought of Jim in years and wondered what he was doing now, or would have been doing, if he hadn’t died all that time ago. He didn’t mention it, and neither did Sherlock.

                “Hi.” John said. “So, you’ve been down to Godric’s Hollow?”

                Sherlock nodded, lowering himself into a chair, looking pensive.

                “Is it true?” John prompted, when he said nothing.

                “As far as I can tell.” Sherlock said begrudgingly.

                “Then what’s wrong?”

                “How did he do it?!” Sherlock exploded, suddenly enraged. “Hundreds of trained Aurors tried, they couldn’t do it, neither could Dumbledore, not even after years of work! How did this baby do it, John, how?! It doesn’t make sense!”

                “Love.” John answered.

                “I can only think it must have been something in Voldemort himself. He must have pushed himself too far- but that doesn’t make sense either, not when you consider how he-”

                “Love, Sherlock.” John said again, matter of factly.

                Sherlock snorted.

                “Sherlock.” John said, firmly. “Lilly Potter gave up her life for her son. It was just love. That’s all.”

                “It doesn’t make any sense, John!”

                “Then stop thinking for five minutes and just enjoy it.”

                “You may as well tell me to stop breathing.” Sherlock answered, sulking.

                “Well then, think about something else.”

                “Such as?”

                “I don’t know, anything.” John shrugged. “Elephants.”

                “Elephants?” Sherlock repeated, distinctly unimpressed. He fell silent thinking, presumably, about elephants.

                “So what are you going to do now?” John asked.

                “I think it’s high time I started the detective business.” Sherlock answered. “The Auror office should be able to manage the clean up on their own, and if they can’t, well, they know where to find me.” There was a slight glint in his eye which suggested the Aurors may find their consultant now demanded a fee. “What about you?”

                “I was thinking ‘pub’.” John answered, raising a smile in his friend. “Come on, get your coat on.”

                “I don’t know anything about elephants.” Sherlock complained as they made their way down the front path.

                “Good, plenty of questions to keep you occupied.” John answered, as they walked along side by side.

                Molly was already at the pub when they arrived, sitting at one of the stools on the bar. It was a muggle pub and so nearly empty, unlike the wizard ones which would, John expected, be full to overflowing today. They went and sat on either side of her, ordering a scotch, a gin and tonic and a pint of bitter and just sat and talked about nothing in particular in a way they hadn’t done since school, and when they ran out of things to say they sat in quiet companionship. In one of these pauses, Molly reached out and took John’s hand, squeezing it as at the same time she lent sideways, resting her head on Sherlock’s shoulder. He didn’t shrug her off, and they stayed there for a moment, linked.

                “I’m glad.” Molly said quietly, and nothing more. There didn’t seem to be anything else to add.

                The pub seemed beautiful that day, though it was small and dimly lit, the whitewashed walls covered in poorly chosen posters and art work, the open beams overhead long since stained by tobacco smoke. The whole atmosphere seemed to change just by the slightest breeze that came in when the door was opened, the patch of light that appeared by the door when it opened, stretching through the pub, warming John’s back just for a moment. He heard the sound of the door opening again, felt the warmth on his back, and then saw Sherlock staring over his shoulder, face carefully expressionless. Molly noticed too, and turned, and her mouth fell open in surprise. John knew who was standing behind him, knew it like he knew his own name, though he didn’t know how. He turned too, and surveyed Jim Moriarty in silence.

                Time and war had not been kind to him. He had lost a lot of weight, and his hair was beginning to grey at the temples in spite of his relatively young age. More noticeable however, was the fact that when he smiled at them, as he did now, there was no self confidence in it, and it quickly faded.

                Nobody said anything.

                Finally, John turned away to look at Sherlock. Somehow he felt like this rested with him. Jim had done such terrible things to Sherlock, had hurt him and hunted him and tortured him and tried to kill him, and it could be these things weren’t made up for in saving his life. Sherlock said nothing, making eye contact with Jim, and the two of them seemed locked in a silent exchange. For a moment, in a wave of nostalgia, John expected them to suddenly shoot rock, paper or scissors. Instead, Sherlock stood up, moved along a stool, and sat back down again. Jim hesitated, and then slotted neatly into the space that had been made for him, as if he had always belonged there.

                “So.” He said, finally. “My round, is it?”

                “Yes.” The other three said together, and somehow, with that simple word, something that was broken seemed to be put back together.

 

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

_2 nd September, 1991_

                John was on his way over to see Sherlock with a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ tucked under his arm. It was reminiscent of the times he had done this, so many times before, when he had found something he thought might be of interest to the consulting detective; or indeed, when the detective himself was mentioned. Today, however, John was bringing it to show him an article just to annoy him. For once, it wasn’t one about Jim, who, as promised, made himself out to be Sherlock’s rival, although he did it within the confines of the Auror’s office and more often than not the two of them ended up working together. John sometimes wondered why Jim had chosen to work within boundaries; but as Sherlock pointed out, it was probably because he hadn’t done too well without them. Even so, Jim had of course got himself the reputation of being a hero by the end of the war, using the years he spent hiding abroad going and undoing the work he had done for Voldemort, persuading people in his charming way not to side with him after all. He had come back the moment he had heard Voldemort was dead and had, for some time, made himself into something of a celebrity.

                John, however, wouldn’t have changed his own life for all the fame in the world. He had continued working alongside the Auror office as an on-team medic even after the war and his secondment had been over, and had one day had the good fortune to assist in an incident where some muggles had been injured by a run away hippogriff. One of the muggles, to his great surprise, had been Mary Morstan, who had once worked in a shop near where he lived, and, somehow, one thing had lead to another, his superior officer had accidentally-on-purpose overlooked her when casting memory charms, and now they were married, their third child on the way. Sherlock was appalled at John settling down into all this domestic bliss and a quiet life, but John had found out a good way to deal with Sherlock’s displeasure: ignoring it. It was hypocritical of Sherlock anyway. John had no doubt he would find Molly round at the Baker Street flat again, now the manager of the St Barts morgue, part-time assistant on Sherlock’s cases, and the owner of three cats; which Sherlock refused point blank to let her bring into his flat, but which she did anyway. Somewhere down the years, Molly Hooper had learnt to stand up to him.

                The article in question was really little more than a stub, just filing in the bottom of a column, and read:

                **_Boy Who Lived Arrives At Hogwarts_**

_Harry Potter, ‘The Boy Who Lived’ yesterday began his first year at Hogwarts. The school has requested complete privacy as Potter, 11, is still readjusting to the wizarding world and his unrivalled fame after being raised by his Muggle aunt and uncle. We can tell you, however, that like his father and mother, Harry Potter has been sorted into Gryffindor house after a record-breaking eighteen minute deliberation by the Sorting Hat, the longest in Hogwarts’ history._

Sherlock read the article, and then screwed it up and threw it aside.

                “Bah!” He said, or something very like it. Even then, Sherlock Holmes did not like to be beaten.

 

 


End file.
